


Decennial

by Myadog3



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Original Character(s), Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25948816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myadog3/pseuds/Myadog3
Summary: So I don't ship Booker with Andy cos she's gay and I dont ship him with Nile because the age difference is kinda sus and I don't ship him with Nicky and Joe because you don't mess with soulmates so that left... Nothing skdjghskgf. Sometimes you gotta write the fanfic you wanna see in the world... I just tossed my generic OC into the mix. Anyways Booker's hot. Chapters with smut marked with *
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Original Female Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 61





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to just write this for as long as inspiration takes me so if theres a specific decade you want to see me cover let me know. Obvi the 60, 70s, 80s, are being covered, she (me) loves the music and bellbottoms. 
> 
> Sebastien is kinda... Shitty at the start but I'm hoping to like, show the character evolution overtime. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: Attempted Non-con (nothing happens cos uh, she kills him sdkfzghkg), Violence, Verbal depictions of blood, gore, etc. They fuck in this chapter too... I already cant remember if theres cursing but theres probably that also.

They had retrieved Maeve from Salem in 1692. Andromache had lost more than she had gained in coming to America. The Scythian had never thought of the price of bringing her family with her. A family that had been rent asunder with the loss of Quyhn… Their reward was not an equivalent exchange. Nothing could replace Andromache’s soulmate. The other warrior goddess. Her partner was laid low by frightened men with an iron maiden. Still, the others had escaped. 

Maeve was on trial for witchcraft, her natural healing skills had been turned against her. Someone in the town she served had reported her to the hunters. After seeing the dried herbs hanging in her hut, Maeve’s fate was sealed. Each new torture they subjected her to was alleged to either prove or disprove she was a witch. After the thumbscrews, Maeve had recognized what it was. It was a test to see how much the human body could handle until it submitted to oblivion. But when the tests had reached their goal, something was different... 

The hunters pulled Maeve’s body out of the freezing river water. She had drowned, proving she was not a witch. They covered her body with a sheet and locked it in the cellar, the ground was too frozen to dig until the spring thaw came. Cremation the following day it would be, in line with the last rites given by God. This was not to be. Out of the black nothing, Maeve reached out. Her body was responding slowly, like she was in a dream. Her fingers twitched, she could still see nothing but black. Like bubbles rising from a lake bed, pain ripped through her lungs. Her body seized and she coughed. Freezing water spurted from the side of her mouth. She heaved again, spewing out more water. The feeling of lead holding her arms down was lifting. She pushed up, a film of some sort crackled as she pulled it away. A white sheet, frozen stiff in the chilled air. She was alive once more.

Maeve was the closest to the new one. She was in Paris. Things she had only read of in books sprung to life in the city built on ancient roots. She had seen Versailles. She had seen the Louvre. It was like a city made of marble. It was what had drawn her to the city in the first place. Everything seemed so much more permanent than the primordial colonization of America. Perhaps it was fate. Josef and Nicolai had taken to the east, to familiarity, to solitude with each other. Andromache still searched for her lost love in the oceans surrounding Massachusetts. Maeve searched the streets like a ghost, taking in all humanity with the splendor of one with nothing but time and nowhere else to be. They were supposed to help where they could. It was Andromache’s one command. Maeve’s clinic was free to those wandering the streets of Paris. There was little she could do with the sickness aside from ease the pain. Perhaps that was all that was needed. She found the new one in a bar. The sense of recognition was strange. Like remembering a dream when real life lines up with it for a single fleeting moment. Deja vu. She had recognized a few of his surroundings when the first of the dreams had come. 

“I’ve seen you in my dreams.” He slurred, too many bottles in for competent speech. Maeve had no clue what to do. This was not something the others had prepared her for. She struggled to remember how they had explained it to her. There would be the language barrier to contend with as well.

“Come with me.” She asked. 

“You’re not French, are you?” He ignored her request.

“I am… Learning.” Maeve tried.   
The others spoke probably every language on the planet. It was the one thing Maeve had struggled to master. Even in her first life she had never gotten the hang of anything other than English. 

“What is your name, dream woman.” He joked. It was as if he didn't truly believe she was there. 

“Maeve, please come with me. I would know your name as well?” She knew not the proper translation. She was a poor study when it came to French and it was coming back to bite her. 

“I have no name. I am a ghost man.” He sighed and took another drink. She reached out and touched his arm, forcing him to meet her eyes once more. 

“Come with me please. I have something to show you.” She stared at what looked like a shell of a man. 

She had been the closest. But she was still far enough away for the confusion of immortality to take its toll. She had felt him die. She heard the tight snap of his neck when the noose finally caught his body. The price for desertion. He had hung there, resurrecting only to be strangled to death once more. There was not a soul left on the battlefield to see him. Dead men's eyes watched as he squirmed and kicked, struggling for air. It wasn't until the rope finally snapped that he was freed from his hell. Maeve would awaken, dripping with sweat, clutching her neck in the middle of the night. The others would be dreaming of him too. They would be making their way to him. It was the only way to make the dreams stop. 

“What will you show me?” He chuckled and tugged at the knot on her bodice, freeing a lace. She grabbed his hand. 

“Follow me to the hospital and I will show you.” She said, trying to drive a sense of urgency into his muddled brain with her eyes. He rolled his eyes and slid off the stool, stumbling across the wooden floor. She bundled her fist into the sleeve of his shirt, hauling him behind her. 

They were almost to the small shack that was her “hospital” when she felt his hands on her shoulders. He was on her almost instantly, spinning her around and pushing her back and up onto a table in an alley. Her look of urgency had been mistaken for an altogether other intention. His lips found her neck, teeth biting skin, hands running down her body. She pushed him off of her. He smirked at her in the moonlight. It was a terrible, lecherous grin. 

“This is not what I meant!” She started before his body eclipsed hers again.   
“Stop!” She yelled, trying to push him off of her. He was bigger than her, stronger, even drunk. She heard the clatter of his belt buckle as it hit the cobblestone road. His uncoordinated hands were fumbling with her skirts, hoisting them higher. 

She had not wanted to do it this way. The others would not have had to do it this way. She drew the athame from her stocking in a flash, driving it into the side of his neck. He froze, and coughed. Blood spattered her face. It smelled like vodka. He clutched at his neck, a single shaking hand pulling the dagger out. Blood poured from the wound. He slumped to the ground. The pool of blood looked black under the moonlight. She stood over him and watched until he stopped moving. 

She collected her knife from the ground, cleaning it of his blood with her skirt. She held him under the arms and tugged. He was heavier than she would have guessed. Thank god the clinic was so close. 

He groaned as he started to come to. He had come back quicker than she had expected. Not enough damage done it would seem. 

“Demon woman!” He spat, pushing himself up off the ground with fury. He stumbled towards her. 

“Stop! Let me show you!” She begged, holding her dagger to an exposed forearm. She drew a quick line up her flesh, drawing blood. He cursed and stepped backwards. Maeve held out her arm so he could see. A moon beam crossed her arm at an angle, her flesh was reconnecting, knitting itself together. He stopped dead. Staring at her arm. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you. There are more.” She said, pointing to her arm. He wiped his hand over his face. Disbelief. She had seen it. She had felt it. Now would come the questions. 

“This isn't real.” He muttered as if he was trying to wake himself from a dream.

“Is this more odd than you dying and being alive?” She asked, shaking the same knife she had used to kill him in the alley. He sat down on an empty chair, holding his face in his hands. 

“Come with me, the others will know better how to say things.” She said. 

“The others?” He asked.

“Three more.” She said. He shook his head. 

“I thought I was lost forever. In hell. How did I not know there were more?” He whispered to himself.

“Your dreams. You will have seen us. Two men, one woman.” Maeve explained. He looked at her. 

“Your French is not good. Are you American?” He asked. She frowned.

“Yes, I am not good at new languages.” She said. “The others. They know many.” She tried. 

“My wife refused to believe it was me when I came home. The news of my desertion had found her already. My children called me a ghost. I have not felt the concern of another in many months. Why is this happening to me?” He asked. 

She shrugged, none of them had the answer, even those who were her seniors.

“We are not any longer part of the world.” She said. She wondered if he knew that she could understand him perfectly fine. He shook his head. 

“Like I said before, I am a ghost. I know this.” He sighed. 

“Join us, make the world better.” She said, gesturing to the hospital. “We will travel to meet the others. Your name?” Maeve asked. 

“Sebastien.” He said. He was resigned to the fate she was giving him it seemed. Perhaps all he needed to be tamed was to be given a purpose, to know that the world still existed around him. 

“We have a place to meet, in these times. The others will come. We can take a train tomorrow to Gdansk.” She suggested. 

“Why me?” He asked again.

“Andromache believes we were summoned to purpose. To atone for the sins of our first life.” Maeve tried. 

“First life?” He asked.

“Do you not believe your first life has ended?” She asked. 

“No, I know I died. I died a coward's death, is that why I am here?” He replied. 

“I died a suspected witch. Perhaps that was my sin...” Maeve didn't have any answers for him, or rather, nothing he wanted to hear. 

“The trials were… decades ago. How old are you?” He asked. 

“One hundred forty five years, I believe.” She said. He shook his head at her. The tortured look on his face was one of realization. He had many more years of this to go. His life would stretch longer than a human’s lifespan. 

“And the others?” He asked. 

“Andromache, we don't know. Before time perhaps. Yusef and Nickolai were in the crusades.” 

He rested his face in his hands again. 

“Sleep, I beg you. We have a long journey tomorrow.” She said.


	2. Road to Gdansk*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They bang lmao Idk what else to say. Sebastien is a rude lover skjdghksg.

Sober, Sebastien was much more agreeable, although almost mute. He followed her commands the next morning, preparing for travel. The orderly manner in which he carried out his tasks reminded her that he had been a soldier. Perhaps taking commands was where he felt the most comfortable. 

Maeve had given him new clothes, his own were stained with his blood and with mud from the alley. She pried up a board of the floor with a metal bar. Stashed under the board was an amount of money and blank passports. It was necessary to have everything they needed to leave the country in case anyone witnessed a resurrection. 

Maeve stood at the doorway to her hospital, surveying her kingdom. Five years she had spent in the little plaster shack, tending the wounds of anyone who would come by. She knew home didn't exist, not for them, but leaving her clinic lay heavy on her heart.

“Why so sad?” He asked, breaking the silence for the first time that morning.

“I will miss this place.” She said, laying a hand on the door frame. He nodded.

“I learned early that though we may die, we do not stop feeling pain.” He said. 

Maeve looked at him, wanting to cry but not wanting to show weakness. He looked somber in the dim morning light. When she had died, she had left nothing behind but a town that hated her. She could not imagine resurrecting and being sent away by your own family. He had lost much, and his life was only beginning. 

Still, he was here. He looked better than he had last night, albeit sadder. He had shaved in the wash basin in the attic. She admired the face he had been hiding under an unkempt beard. He was an altogether very attractive man. His eyes looked like the ocean as they crossed over from America. Calm for the moment, but forever bound for tumultuous weather. 

Maybe if he was sober and shaved she would have let him take her in the alley last night. There was none of that brutality present in him today. He seemed to be fluttering along on the wind like a kite with its string cut. 

\---------------------

The train station was bustling, refugees from the war were packing their belongings onto carts. Maeve had bought a sleeper car. They were traveling too far for sleeping a night or two on the seats. Plus, they had sensitive material to discuss. If anything, he seemed to realize the necessity of being discreet with their special trick. Maeve had seen what witnessing such an event did to the simple minded in Salem. She shuddered to think what would happen if they were revealed once more. 

Maeve had brought her bag with her, Sebastien carried nothing. He had told her that he had been living as a street urchin for some time. Begging for the coin he needed to take him to his next bottle. He floated between towns, owning nothing, staying nowhere. 

Maeve wondered if he would be able to recover from the desolation of his first few months. The confusion and loneliness could settle into ones hard and weigh it down like an anchor. As they entered the train car he slumped into the seat across from the bed. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t have enough for two rooms and well, I figured you would have more questions.” She said, gesturing to the room. He waved a hand.

“This is fine. I will sleep here if it pleases you.” He said. She figured he would prefer anything to a barstool as a bed at this point. The train lurched as it pulled out of the station. Maeve caught herself against a lamp. 

“Not used to steam trains are we?” He asked. 

“I admit I have more experience with horses. Although they are far slower than what we need for this journey.” She said. 

“In the war, I rode cavalry. I share your sentiments.” He said. 

He reached for the complementary wine bottle in the chiller. He ripped the cork out with his teeth. Maeve bit her lip. She did not like him while he was drunk. 

“Unless you would prefer I not drink?” He asked. 

“No, help yourself. They will bring us dinner. I am told.” She said.

He nodded and drank deeply from the bottle. She held her hand out for the wine. She could at least diffuse the amount he had access to. He passed her the bottle and she drank from it. He arched an eyebrow as she did not reach for a separate glass. The wine was bitter, closer to vinegar really. Maeve screwed up her face in disgust. 

He chuckled, it rumbled through his chest. Maeve shivered a little, she could almost feel the sound waves from his laugh warming her. She shook her head. It was likely the wine.

“We will not get drunk from this swill. It is mostly water anyway.” He said, leaning back against the seat. He was lounging as if he belonged in the train car his whole life. 

“Why drink it then?” She said and pulled the cork from his hand, his fingers cupped hers momentarily before she pulled away. 

She blushed as she worked the cork back into the bottle. Was he doing this intentionally? Or had he gone so long without the touch of his wife that his brain was addled by the mere proximity of a woman? 

There was a knock at the door. A waiter slid the screen open. 

“Messere, madam, your supper.” He said and wheeled in a dining cart. Maeve was thankful for the interruption. 

They ate in silence, the only noise was to be the clinking of the silverware and the tearing of bread. After a time the water returned and removed their dining cart.

“Why are you alone?” Sebastien asked after Maeve had busied herself with sweeping the crumbs into a garbage pail. 

“Yusef and Nicky are together, and spend the off time such. Andromache prefers solitude.” She explained. 

“You still seek no company?” He asked. 

“My hospital kept me in company enough.” She said. 

“Even after nightfall?” He asked. 

He was playing a dangerous game. To what end she did not know. He was toying with her maybe. Testing her somehow. She looked at him, he still held that dreary sullen look about him. He was dangerously deceptive. Too hard to predict. It angered her. Had he been upfront perhaps she would oblige him. She had no time for word games. No time to dance around with no description. 

“It is foolish to seek comfort that way. You will see once everyone you once knew turns to ashes in the wind.” She snapped. 

This hurt him, she could see. But it was the truth. She had seen many of her lovers rot and crumble over time all while she stayed young. One always had to leave before they started asking about her youth. Staying unattached was easier. Less painless. 

Even though Yusef and Nickolai were immortal, she had seen the fear and the pain whenever the other was injured, or worse. Each time she could see the terror in their eyes that perhaps this time, was the one when the other would not wake up. Sebastien reached for the wine bottle once more. She frowned. 

“I am going to change into my sleeping clothes.” Maeve said. He looked at her, blinking. 

“Uh, right now.” She said. Realization dawned on him. 

“I will turn.” He said, standing to face away. Before he could turn, the train lurched harshly. 

He fell back against the seat, Maeve landing atop of him in his lap, stopping herself with her hands against the wall. He had caught her somewhat, hand on her hips. They stood still. 

The train car rocked. His hands held her tightly in place, even if she had tried to move, she couldn't. She did not try to move. He stared at her, the fire from the night in the alley was back, clearer now that he was not drunk. Maeve had not been on the receiving end of that fire for quite some time. She could see his eyes better now, the lightness of his irises becoming eclipsed by the darkness of his pupils. 

Her eyes flicked down to his lips and she watched the corners of them twitch, masking a smile. She took one of her hands down from the wallpaper and touched the side of his face. Her thumb traced the bottom of his lip. He pulled her down into his lap, grinding against her core. She gasped and grabbed his shoulder, steading herself against him. She acknowledged the foolishness of her predicament somewhere in the back of her mind. But she enjoyed his touch far to much to voice her concern.

He leaned forward, his breath brushing against her chest, his eyes still fixed on hers. This was definitely not in the “retrieving a new immortal manual.” He pressed a kiss to her collarbone, then a gentle nip with his teeth, and another kiss. His lips were soft, tender, rolling like storm clouds in the sky against her flesh. His teeth bit out like lightning against the night sky. His face curved into her neck. She brushed a hand through his hair, soft, but tangled. She rolled against him. 

She could hear as his breathing became labored. She sighed, her fingers curling into his shoulders. He was pulling her against him again. There was too much fabric between them for anything to be defined but the heat was there. The need was there… 

Maeve decided she didn't care about any manual. She grabbed both sides of his face, turning him up to look at her. Perhaps her past mistake was that she had taken lovers that could be turned to ashes in the dust. 

She kissed him, pushing his mouth open with her tongue. He responded, ravenous. This was not a kiss, it was a fight. She had the leverage in this position, but was still losing. They broke away, panting. His grip tightened on her hips. She saw him smirk. 

Then he was hoisting her up, crossing the few feet to the bed and slamming her down on it. She sucked in a breath of air on impact. It was happening too fast, she wanted it faster. He was pushing her skirts up again, this time she wasn't stopping him, instead shimming her hips so the fabric collected at her waist more easily. He stepped back, ripping her underwear down her legs and throwing it carelessly to the floor. She reached for her stocking ties. He pushed her hands away. 

“Leave them.” He growled, undoing his belt just enough so he could lay on top of her. He thrust into her harshly. She was wet already. It would have been near embarrassing how fast she was ready for him if it didn't make his sudden intrusion pass painlessly. She could still feel him stretching her, taking her right to the edge of too much. He groaned as he entered her. 

His hands were at her waist again, guiding her to him. 

“Oh!” She sighed and wrapped her legs around him, urging him onward. 

He was being rough with her. There were no soft edges like his kisses before, only sharp corners. Her breasts shook over the top of her bodice in parallel with his movements. He set a punishing rhythm. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly agape. His hair fell unkempt around his temples, framing his face. 

She yelped as his hips snapped into hers. She could hear his small grunts of effort. He seemed concerned only with his own release, and he was seeking it eagerly between her thighs. The suddenness of her fall back to an animalistic instinct had her racing to her own end. 

His fingers were tight on her flesh, pulling her against him. It hurt but it was not painful. She had not been taken in this manner ever before. It was exhilarating. She groaned as the train car rocked, stopping at the station, changing the angle that their bodies met. 

He moaned into her ear. Maeve supposed any passersby would presume that they were a married couple seeking solace in their solitary room. If only they knew they were but strangers tied together by some supernatural fate. 

She dug her hands into the fabric of his shirt. She was begging him, reverting back to English to plead with him to take her faster, harder, more of anything really. More of him. 

“Please, please, please-” She was muttering, she was so close. She threw her head back, gasping his name with a pleading voice. 

He grunted and she felt him pull out, stroking himself just a few times before cumming on her thighs. She heard the rustling of fabric. It took her a while to realize what had happened.

She propped herself up on her elbows. The peak that he had been carrying her towards just seconds ago was fading into nothing. Why was he stopping? He had already re-fastened his trousers. He brushed his hair back in place with a hand. 

She had never been closer to coming with any other man. Most of the time she felt little to nothing. Sex had just been a type of payment, a thank you of sorts. A way to show care for others' needs. A few moments more and she would have been gasping out her release against him. What was he doing? Was he meaning to leave? 

“Wh-” She started, as he reached for the train car door, she hurried to cover herself before she would be exposed to any passersby. Thankfully there were none. He slid the door closed behind him with a snap. 

She blinked in confusion. She grabbed her underwear from the seat, stepping into them on still-quaking legs. She brushed her skirts down, reaching for the door. 

It wouldn't budge. She cursed. He had jammed it with something. Why was he running? She banged on the door, kicking it with a boot. She yelled for help. 

\---

In the bustle of the passengers disembarking she must have been somewhat silenced. She heard the departure whistle sound and pounded desperately on the door. 

She finally heard a single man's voice ring out. 

“Madam are you alright?” He asked. The train shifted beneath her and she stumbled. They were moving. 

“Let me out! Quick! This is my stop!” She begged. 

“Madame please stay calm, your door lock seems to be broken. I will summon the engineer.” He said. What else was she to do but wait? The train chugged down the tracks, picking up speed. The others would kill her for this. What was she to do with another immortal on the run? Risking their safety? She had told him too much too fast. Had she compromised her family? Damn him. When she found him again she would kill him. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S-someone please beta this for me, I cant ask my friends if I ever want them to look me in the eye again asjkfghzsg.


	3. Belarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm just trying to find a way to fill in the gaps between smut ;-; God help me. *I get smited by lightning*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maeve has hardcore imposter syndrome just like me kjgksfgkjsg. "We gave Cindy ability to whistle lets give Jimmy rapturous enjoyment of mustard" -deadass how I throw out my personality traits to my characters.
> 
> Also, I KNOW his name is Yusef but if this follows the typical course of history I see his name getting more and more anglicized as time goes on from Yusef -> Joe depending on the time period.

10 Years Later, Belarus. 

“Your French is much better.” Sebastien joked. 

“I needed to learn how to call you an asshole somehow didn’t I?” Maeve snapped. 

Nicky snorted. She had not told the others of their dalliance on the train a decade ago, only that he had managed to lock her in the car and flee. Andromache had convinced them that if he wanted time and space they should allow him such, as long as he did not draw attention to himself. But now they needed him, they were to embark on an endeavor much grander than themselves.

“It is very important that you come with us now. There is an uprising against the Tsar and we need your help.” Josef said. 

“What am I supposed to do?” Sebastien scoffed.

“You were a soldier once, teach us how to infiltrate the resistance camps.” Andromache demanded. 

Maeve was right, everything was much simpler, far better when the others were around. They were comfortable with what they needed to do. They were clear in their purpose. Maeve still felt like a foolish little child even after almost 200 years. Andromache had explained their cause more impassioned than the greatest speakers of their time. She was truly the best leader their group could ask for. She could rouse a deadman to rise up and grab his spear... Not only had they convinced Sebastien to help them infiltrate the camps, but he was going to fight alongside them. 

It was everything Maeve had failed to do in Paris ten years ago. 

\------------------------

The infiltration went simply enough. Maeve had been right all those years ago. Sebastien functioned better with a purpose. He had stolen uniforms and forged papers. Maeve refused the uniform. She would enter the camp as a volunteer medic. She could not pass as a soldier like Andromache could. 

Maeve’s tent was located at the outskirts of the camp. There was no one there to vouch for her. She had to earn her place once more, earn the soldiers trust. The other slipped into the ranks easily. They had all been warriors at one point or another in their lives. 

Like recognized like, the immortals were welcomed into the group as if they had been there from the start of the band of rebels. It was likely that if asked, any of the soldiers would have defended this statement as fact. Maeve was different from the others too. She did not seek out places for battle. She had never fought in her first life either. She considered herself a healer. 

But what place did a healer have amongst a group of immortal warriors? They were indestructible with or without her efforts. She had told Sebastien on the trip to the train that she did not like to fight as the others did. He seemed amused by this. As if it was obvious about Maeve from everything about her. 

Sebastien and Andromache had found a kindred spirit in each other. Both had lost their loved ones as a result of their immortality. Both grappled with the solitude of their lot, it seemed to weigh heavier on them than most. Maeve felt an odd sort of jealousy. Sebastien was in no way hers, but she felt somewhat connected to him. Perhaps since she was the one to find him and sever the link of their dreams. 

She refused to believe that the connection was from their soiree on the train. That was closer to a crime of passion than a connection. Perhaps what Maeve was feeling was the alienation from her family once again. Sebastien had slipped into the group almost effortlessly and yet Maeve still watched from what felt like the outside. 

She left the group of soldiers drinking by the campfire light. She had never found a taste for alcohol. Silence was to be her company for the night. She pulled back the shade of her tent, moving her surgical instruments into a travelling bag, making sure her supplies were stocked. They would battle tomorrow. Casualties were to be expected on both sides. Maeve hoped to minimize them. 

Sebastien slipped into her tent later that night. She had half been expecting him. 

“What do you want?” She asked the shadow at her door. 

“To... apologize. For my actions in the past.” He said. 

A match was struck and the oil lamp on the ground was lit. She didn't like him when he was drunk nor sober. When he was drunk he was sloppy, barbaric. When he was sober he was kniving, unpredictable. She did not know which one had entered her tent. 

“I’ve heard that before, I believe.” She said. Lacing her words with venom did not seem to deter him.

“I still dream of you. What does that mean?” He asked. 

“Means you have a guilty conscience.” She suggested. 

“You killed me, then trapped me into traveling with you to meet your immortal friends who “do works”, how was I supposed to react?” He asked. 

“My French wasn’t good. I’m sorry I’m the one who found you.” Maeve snapped, she felt the cot depress with his weight next to her. His eyes still held that same dreary look from all those years ago. 

“I, at least, am glad that you are the one who found me.” He said, reaching out and tugging one of the loose curls of her hair. She watched the light from the lamp flicker over his face. 

“Are you drunk?” She asked him. 

“Perhaps a little. I was… Wondering if you would let me make up for leaving you on the train.” His fingers left her hair and brushed lightly on her neck. Gooseflesh prickled on her skin from his touch. She remembered now the intoxication of his presence. 

“I-no. Get out.” She said, grabbing his hand and pulling it from her skin. “We are to fight tomorrow, I have no time for this.” She stood back up and walked over to her supplies, checking them once more. 

“I thought you said you didn’t fight.” He asked her. She heard the springs from her cot creak as he stood. 

“I said I didn't fight, not that I couldn't.” She quipped and shot him a disapproving look.

“I suppose I know this, I remember.” He said, tapping his neck where she had stabbed him. “Will you join me tomorrow night then?” He asked, standing at the exit to her tent. 

She considered for a moment. In making it up to her did he mean… She hesitated in her response. She heard it. He heard it too. 

“No, I don’t think so. Why don't you ask Andromache?” She chided. 

He shook his head and lifted the tent curtain to leave.

“Andromache does not still haunt my dreams.”

\-------------------

Maeve was collecting pieces of him from the battlefield. She had already helped Josef collect his guts back into his chest cavity. Andromache searched the scorched earth for Nicky. 

Someone on the other side had sent cannonballs into the rebels. It was a massacre. Maeve had saved all she could but, there were so few left. Sebastien had been ripped apart by the cannons. Maeve reassembled him to speed up the healing process. She had never seen any of them be injured this bad. An evisceration here or there was one thing but this? There was so little of him left... One half of his face was near gone, the other half looked into the grey sky with no expression. 

“I’m going over the East hill to look for Nicky.” Andromache said, retrieving a rifle from a man who could no longer hold it.

“I-I’m coming too.” Josef grunted. He looked like a dead man walking, or rather, sitting there holding his innards.

“C’mon, you’re still healing.” Andromache said as she checked the chamber of the gun.

“I must go to him.” Josef begged, Maeve helped him to his feet. She looked at Andromache. 

Andromache nodded and slung Josef’s arm over her shoulder to help him walk. Maeve gestured to Sebastien's body, questioning.

“Stay with him until he wakes up. We’ll camp at the side of the river tonight, then go to the palace tomorrow. Make sure he knows.” Andromache commanded. Maeve nodded. 

Andromache and Josef limped over the ridge until they vanished from sight. Maeve continued to scour the battlefield, searching for anyone she could save. There was no one to be found. She returned to Sebastien’s side. There seemed to be little to no healing happening. Wouldn't that just be the way? He would be relieved from his immortality just like that. Eternal rest after only ten years of being indestructible. He could have survived that long in a mortal’s time.

Maeve took coats from some of the dead soldiers and covered his corpse with them. She would prefer not to watch him rot. She wondered how long she would have to sit there before she could return to camp and tell Andromache he was dead. She leaned against a tree and watched as the sun dipped behind the trees. A shame really. If he had remained sober and relatively clean that day, she may have snuck into his tent that night to make good on his offer. There was an emotional and physical adrenaline let down following the panic of a battle. Some type of release was often the best way to sort it out. She glanced over at his covered corpse. He had seemed the type not to be bothered by casual sex. 

She looked back to their night on the train with mixed feelings. It was altogether pleasant, with a cold formality representative of duty that she liked. It was pleasurable, what more could she ask for after 200 years? It felt more of a transaction than a quick fuck. It was the price he paid for his opportunity to escape. Although had he asked, she would have let him leave anyway. In the expanse of time that stretched before them, it was unlikely that he could vanish forever. 

And he was attracted to her, at least a little. This was evident from when she killed him in the alley. Even with their powers of resurrection, they were still human. She still felt the burning coil of desire every now and again, particularly when in his presence. There was still something in her brain that desired to ‘fix’ him when she saw the sadness still haunting his eyes. She didnt think that sex necessarily would fix that. Especially since he had left a wife and children (plural!) But still, the carnal comforts were exactly that, comfort. He had not allowed her to show him her repertoire of skills collected over decades. Maeve took off her apron and rolled it up, sliding it under her head as a pillow. She could likely nap till dawn and still have time to catch up with Andromache, Josef, and Nicky. 

\-----------------------------------

Maeve was startled awake by a shuddering intake of breath. She sat up, reaching for her dagger. She looked quickly around.

Turns out they could heal from cannonball impacts after all. Sebastien was sitting upright. Maeve stood, unfolding her apron and tying it back around her waist. 

“Christ, put your eye back in before I puke.” She told Sebastien as she pulled the extra uniforms off of him. 

His appendages had affixed themselves as she slept. There were scarring depressions in the skin from where they had reattached. He looked like a patchwork quilt. He held the still healing side of his face together. Andromache was right when she said that the bigger the injury the longer it would take to heal. 

“W-what happened?” He asked. 

“We lost. They had a cannon.” She explained, pulling the torn clothes off of him and wiping the excess blood away with a rag. 

“The others?” He groaned as he raised his arm so she could pull a shredded shirtsleeve off of him. 

“Waiting for us by the river over the East hill, hopefully. Andromache says we’ll go to the palace tomorrow. She’ll probably kill the duke.” Maeve explained. 

“Just like that?” Sebastien asked as Maeve stood, offering him her hand to stand up. 

“I think perhaps we should have gone for the snake’s head first myself, saved all this bloodshed, but Andromache usually knows best.” Maeve said. He stumbled against her. Muscles were probably still healing. 

“We should find you some clothes that are actually, you know, clothes.” Maeve said. 

He nodded and ran his fingers over the tattered fabric of his uniform. 

“Shall we go then?” He asked.  
“Yeah, keep an eye out.” Maeve warned. 

She didn't expect any stragglers to be hunting the fields at night but she would rather be safe than sorry. She didn't relish the idea of waiting for him to heal for the rest of the night. 

Maeve began scanning the battlefield on the way over the East hill. She was looking for someone one Sebastien’s height and build. He was taller than most European men she had met, which would pose a problem. There was someone laying face down with clothing mostly intact. He looked to be around Sebastien’s size. Maeve whistled and Sebastien began making his way over to her. She flipped the man over. 

When his back hit the ground she heard a very loud noise. Then pain was spreading over her chest. She looked down. The man she was going to take clothes from was alive, just barely. But just barely was enough to point the gun he was laying on at her and fire. Maeve clutched her chest. Warm and wet, blood. Damn. The shock was filtering out quickly, making room for the agonizing burn of death to creep through. She hated getting shot to death. It burned. She fell to her knees. It hurt to breathe, but it also hurt not to. She was choking on the blood filling her lungs. She was almost thankful when the darkness of unconsciousness began filling her eyes. 

\-----------------------------

Maeve grunted as she came to. She was moving, rocking like on the ocean. Floating like a leaf down a river. She stretched her legs out and the balance shifted. She was falling. 

“Ow!” She yelped as she hit the ground.

“Why did you do that?” Sebastien’s voice asked. 

“Why were you carrying me?” Maeve asked. 

“Because you died!” He said. 

“Then wait? This is not my first rodeo” Maeve replied, standing back up. 

“Your what?” He asked.

“I’ve died before you fool.” She explained.

“We need to meet up with the others, I didn't want to wait.” He snapped. She could tell from the fire in his voice he had been drinking. Perhaps he had found a flask on one of the dead soldiers. 

“Well sorry for inconveniencing you then.” She huffed, turning on her heel and marching towards the glint of a fire way off in the distance. He jogged to catch up with her. They walked in silence towards the voices of their crew. The small speck of fire was growing larger. It made a beacon in the desolate gloom of the fields. 

The chill wind ran over the steppe, making the grass flow like waves. Maeve shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Her blood was cold, it had not yet dried. 

“Take my jacket.” Sebastien said, shrugging off the uniform and holding it out to her on a finger. 

Maeve considered refusing out of spite but then a fresh gust of wind made her think better of it. She pulled the too large jacket on backwards, protecting the damp spot on her front from the wind. Even though he had only been wearing it for a few moments, the coat already smelled like him. It sent a jolt of electricity down her spine. She had not been close enough to him in recent times to smell it. The scent had been strongest when he had been laying on top of her in the train car. Maeve believed that scent could sometimes connect to memories better than visuals or sounds. This was definitely the case with this jacket. 

Her thoughts flickered briefly to pulling him down in the wheat with her and warming up a different way. She decided it was too risky how close to the camp they were. She would die if any of the others commented on him and her as a paired set. She did not particularly want the others to find out about the moment on the train car either. She was afraid it would seem childish to them to be seeking company with the only other free agent of their creed. 

\------------------------

“Little sister! You live!” Came Nicky’s elated voice once they drew in view of the camp. Maeve removed the coat and handed it back to Sebastien, joining the others around the fire. 

“Just barely though, it would seem.” Josef joked, referencing the bloodstain on her front.

“We’ll get new clothes from the palace. I’m sure the duke won't miss any.” Andromache said. She could certainly be terrifying. 

“And you! You healed!” Josef said, pointing to Sebastien. 

“Took you long enough.” Andromache joked.

“Did you see him?” Maeve chuckled. “The worst I’ve ever seen us, next time, let's go somewhere without cannons.” She finished. 

“Tssk, you know nothing, until you see trebuchet wounds.” Nicky said, wagging a finger.

“Flat!” Josef said, clapping his hands together. 

“C’mon, stop scaring her. We need to get some sleep before tomorrow.” Andromache commanded. They obliged her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cool uncles Joe and Nicky,,, we do stan.


	4. The Mansion *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its like Ms. Thee Stallion says: 'he aint mine, I just let him eat me out from time to time'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me finally writing this part: @ booker on GOD we got get you some pussy bro...

The palace was exactly how Andromache had alluded. Maeve half wondered if the Scythian had been there before… Everything was gilded. Rich people really would attempt to recreate the sistine chapel in their own homes if their finances allowed… 

The duke had sent his family out of the country at the first whiff of rebellion. He had traded them for personal guards. Guards that Andromache and the crew had quickly cut through. They had a few more hours in the palace to themselves before the news couriers would arrive at an empty mansion. The duke had been another casualty, Andromache had decided his fate the night prior. No amount of begging could stop what was already in motion. 

Sebastien had given her back his coat the following morning. The cold light of day minced no words in driving home the fact that she was covered in blood. A substantial part of her belly was exposed as well. His jacket helped cover her. She had rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. Maeve still felt drowned in the fabric. He had used the coat as a pillow the night previous though. This had reaffirmed the way his scent lingered on the wool... Maeve caught herself pulling the collar under her nose. The rough wool brushed against her lips like his stubble had on the train. 

Josef was raiding the pantry while Nicky helped Andromache read the dukes correspondence. Sebastien had taken off wandering the halls of the mansion. He was probably looking for the wine cellar... Maeve turned out of the office and began searching the rooms for new clothes. 

The mansion was expansive. Maeve would have preferred a map to guide her through the winding corridors and hallways. Certain decorations gave her a hint to where her roaming was leading. The more fanciful the decorations, the closer she would draw to her goal. 

Maeve climbed the stairs to what was obviously the master bedroom. A white and gold four poster bed stood sentinel across from the window overlooking the garden. Fresh fruit was piled into silver dishes on the fireplace mantle. Velvet curtains swayed with the breeze trickling in from the windows. Her books clacked against polished oak floors. It all looked like a still life from a painting. Everything was perfectly in its place. Giant landscape paintings hung on the walls. The armoire itself was larger than most rowboats Maeve had seen. She threw open the great mahogany doors. 

At the top of the armoire a box rattled. What treasures could such a stash hold of the rest of the room looked as it did? Maeve stood on tip toes to nudge it off the top. Her fingers brushed the bottom of it and she tugged it towards the edge. 

“What are you looking for?” A voice from the doorway asked. The box tipped as Maeve jumped, spilling its contents to the floor. Silk scarves and hat pins. Sebastien stood in the doorway. 

“Christ, you scared me.” Maeve said, quickly shoving the scarves back into the box. “I was looking for new clothes because of the blood.” She gestured to her waist. 

Sebastien was holding a small stack of books. He walked over to where she knelt at the foot of the closet. He set his books on the nightstand. He helped her collect the items back into their place. They stood back up. He held out a hand. 

“What?” Maeve asked, instinctively pulling the box away from him.

“Please allow me. I am taller.” He said. 

He had not found the cellar yet. He smelled like himself instead of the drink. She gave him the box. He easily reached over her and put it back on top of the closet. She stepped back, her shoulder bumped against the wardrobe frame as he leaned to return the box to its place. Maeve would have thought that Sebastien towering over her would be intimidating, but instead she felt enveloped and protected. He was a shield between her and the world. And by the devil did he smell good. He stepped away. She saw a patch in his hair that had been sheared off from the cannon blast. She tssked and reached out and touched it.

“You’ll need a haircut. This looks weird.” She said, smirking. He frowned. 

“It is odd to me that you were a medic. Your bedside manner is somewhat lacking.” He replied. She shrugged. He stooped to pick up his books. 

“Whatcha reading?” She asked. 

“The Odyssey and Lysistrata. The binding is very beautiful.” He said, tilting them so she could see the gold leafing. 

“Well, it's odd to me that you are a classics fan.” She joked. He looked at her with that same drained expression.

“My father never learned how to read. He was very pleased when I was able to go to school. I would read whatever we could get a hold of to him. He preferred the great Greek works.” He explained. 

Maeve felt like an asshole. He was still looking at her.

“May I?” He asked, using a finger to pull the side of her (or rather his) coat open. He dipped his hand into a pocket sewn on the inside. He retrieved a silver flask. The heat from his hand radiated to her body. 

She caught his hand when it left the coat pocket. 

“I’m sorry about the classics comment.” She started. He seemed half surprised, both by her touch and her comment. She continued.  
“I’ve been rude to you and you don't deserve it. You’re one of us and I haven't been acting like it. I was mad because I felt like a fool for losing you on the train. I know you must have had so many things to sort out for yourself and I was very tactless. I’m sorry.” She finished. 

He was silent. She was afraid he was just going to leave again. He looked almost angry. He took the collar of the uniform very delicately in his fingers, thinking. A muscle in his jaw flexed. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asked.

“Will you run again?” She replied. The corners of his mouth twitched.

“No.” He said. 

“Then do it.” She sighed. 

He did. 

She kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down to her using her weight. He stumbled, dropping his books and the flask. It clattered loudly on the floor. He pulled them away from the dresser. 

Sebastien slipped a hand under the collar of the coat to cradle her neck. She pulled away from him. He looked worried until she let his coat fall off of her shoulders and to the floor. 

“Did you just want to kiss me?” She asked, putting her hand on his chest. She could feel his heart beating under her fingers. He shook his head.

“No.” He answered. 

“Good.” Maeve said. 

She turned away from him and shut the door to the bedroom. She blessed the rich for one thing, always having locks on their doors. 

She pulled her pinafore up over her head. She let it drop to the floor. He let his eyes trail down her almost naked body. She hooked her thumbs around her underwear and pulled them off. He just watched her. She walked to the bed, crawling up on it and gesturing to him to join her. 

“Now's your chance to make it up to me for the train.” She said. He nodded and tugged his suspender straps off his shoulders. She watched as he undressed. He was methodical and precise in his movements. He was calmer now than he had been on the train. But determination and hunger lurked behind his eyes. She wondered what he was like before the change. If there was more brightness to his demeanor or if he had always been bleak. 

When he was completely nude, he walked to the edge of the bed. He traced his hand up her naked leg and back down. He gripped her ankle and tugged her to the edge of the bed. Maeve gasped. Her legs draped on either side of him. He knelt. He put a hand on each knee, coaxing her legs apart. She didn't budge.

“You don't have to do that.” She said. She didn't want him pleasuring her out of some sense of obligation. She would be just as happy to take him on these silk sheets with no preamble. She knew most men preferred to not… He scoffed.

“I’ve made a bad name for myself as a frenchman and a lover. I aim to set the record straight.” He said. She nodded and laid back against the sheet, looking up at the mesh drapes of the bed. 

His hands were gentle this time, his movements hesitant. 

Maeve took a breath in when his mouth touched her. His lips were on her hip bones, following the curve of them down to the apex of her legs. He continued onwards down her body. He rubbed the stubble of his face against the silk of her thighs. She felt chills flutter down her spine. His breath was hot on her core. 

She shivered and gently threaded her fingers through his hair. He was going slow. It was agonizing. She wouldn't have initiated things if she wasn't ready. He was taking some sick pleasure in making her wait. She bit her lip when his teeth scraped against her thigh. He sucked bruises into her legs. She shuddered and covered her eyes with the hand not tangled in his hair. He was indeed making good on his promise. In the quiet of the room all she could hear was their breathing. 

She wiped the sweat from her brow. Her body felt heated by him once more. Each nerve was poised, waiting for his touch. 

“Don’t tease.” She whispered after a few more moments of his attention. He obeyed her. He spread her thighs further apart and put his mouth to her. Her fingers tightened in his hair. 

Maeve sucked in a breath. He was making very good on his promise. A shuddering moan passed her lips before she could catch it. She felt, rather than heard him smile. He continued. 

There was a certain way he was reading her. He must have been picking up on signals she didn't know she was transmitting. When something wasn’t working, he would abandon it. When he found something that did, he would continue until her legs started to shiver, then back off. She was being brought right up to the threshold of release and then allowed to trickle down. She was panting, her breath coming in short bursts. 

Her fingers combed through his hair, tightening then releasing. She kept reminding herself to relax, not to pull. The way he was fellating her made it difficult. She would catch herself directing him by tugging his hair. If he minded, he made no notion, but she knew it must at least sting. The contradiction between the softness of his hair and the rough texture of his beard seemed to boggle her mind. God, she couldn't think with the way his tongue was moving. 

He was still teasing, letting her start to think that maybe this time was the one. She wondered how long he would continue...

“S-Sebastien-” She begged. He glanced up at her. She looked down at him and bit her lip, lifting her hips slightly. He seemed to know what she was asking of him because he pinned her thighs and ducked between them. He was determined this time. He was continuing on without allowing her a moment for the pleasure to decrease. Maeve gasped, her legs tensing. He didn't stop. 

She tangled both hands into his hair. If she was hurting him he made no indication. She squeezed her eyes shut. The reverberating waves of electricity were building. After his patient work they seemed to spread too quickly. She tensed her legs over his shoulders, tugging him closer. A fleeting thought of regret that she was going to come without him flickered through her mind but then was extinguished when he hummed against her. The rumble of his mouth was too much and she pulled him harder against her with her hands in his hair. He redoubled his efforts. 

The pleasure was cresting, breaking in waves through her body. She could feel nothing but his mouth on her. 

“Fuck! I-I’m-Oh God!” She gasped, legs shaking. Release flooded her brain, blocking all else out. He held her fast, still moving his mouth against her, not stopping until her quaking thighs pinned his head. Her body trembled as it calmed. She let her legs slide back down to rest on his shoulders. He leaned his head against her leg until her grip on his hair relinquished. 

“Good?” He asked when her breathing returned closer to normal.

“Don’t sound so smug.” She chided.

“I was simply asking. But I suppose that was my answer.” He chuckled. He wiped his face with a hand and stood. 

Maeve pushed herself further up the bed. The mattress dipped with his weight as he kneeled on the down bedding. She spread her legs so he could lay between them. He kept the majority of his weight off of her by holding himself up on his elbows. 

He was still so aggravatingly slow. She touched his sides, running her hands down until her hands were on his hips. She pulled him to her, reaching between them to take hold of his cock. His eyes snapped shut and his face screwed up in pleasure. It was a good look on him. She stroked him slowly, enjoying the way his skin felt like satin under her fingers. He was so warm. Like this, she could not even remember what cold felt like. 

When he was having trouble stifling his sighs, she guided him to her, letting him grind against her. He groaned and looked at her. 

“You first made it sound like you had not done this before, but that’s not true is it?” He asked, his breath coming faster now. He wasn't accusing her of anything, but rather seemed pleasantly surprised by her boldness. 

“I’m two-hundred years old. What do you think?” She joked. She spread her legs farther and traced the planes of his hip bones with her fingertips. He kissed her again, it surprised her. She could taste the faintest trace of herself on his tongue. Her fingers tightened on his hip and he pushed into her.   
She inhaled through her nose as he entered her. Ten years and she was furious she had gone that long without this feeling. He thrust shallow, slowly, pushing until he fit flush against her. She pulled him closer so he could lay more of his weight on her. 

It was her who broke the kiss. Maeve turned her head to the side so she could still breathe. The all encompassing scent of him was dizzying. Her hair was spread out on the pillow, contrasting against the bright white. He pulled back out, near to leaving her, before slowly drawing his hips forward. 

She sighed as he tilted his hips up right as he was almost completely in her, finishing the arc with a sudden snap of his hip that made her gasp. He slowly pulled back out. Her nails bit into his flesh the first few times he did this. At least until she was accustomed to the burst of pleasure it sent through her body. He repeated this process again and again, frustrating in his preciseness. She ground against him, following the pace he set, albeit more frantically. He sighed as he worked against her, his breath tickling the tiny hairs on her skin. 

What he was doing wasn't enough for her to come, but it was plenty to stoke the fire. He had reignited the embers of her desire for him. Maeve wanted to come again. She wanted to come with him inside her and hold him to her as she finished. She wanted to see his face as he came, wanted it to be because of her. 

He was taking his time. She wondered how long they had been gone, if any of the others were wondering about them. She wanted to make the most of her time with him. She wanted him to enjoy it too. She could sense that he was holding back. There was still a trace of the man who had pounded her harshly into the train bed behind each movement. A caged creature pacing behind the bars of his morality. Maeve wanted the key to the lock. 

“F-faster, please.” She stammered after the last snap of his hips. He chuckled and let his forehead rest against her arm. His hair tickled her skin. He continued his slow rolling pace.

“You don’t know what you ask of me.” He whispered, “I wanted this to last longer but if you want me to go faster, I will oblige you.” 

“I’ve already come, please just fuck me.” She asked, kissing his shoulders. She felt his hips stutter in their pacing. 

“You have such a dirty mouth. Who taught you those words in French?” He joked. 

“Don’t change the subject.” Maeve said as she tapped her fingers on his arm. 

“Of course.” He replied. 

He pushed up from her body, holding the top of the bed frame to steady himself. He resumed his original rhythm. Maeve opened her mouth to chastise him when his next thrust came faster. He picked up in speed after each cycle, eventually just pulling out enough to slam back into her. She sighed his name in approval. She grabbed his ass and pulled him to her, urging him even faster. He groaned and his fingers went to her hip. He held her tightly, pulling her to him to match his new pace. The tempo was set when she couldn't help herself from moaning unrestrained. Now he was fucking her. 

Their bodies slid against each other. The sound of skin meeting skin sounded over the creaking of the wooden bed. Every now and again one of them would remember to breathe and either suck in, or gasp out a panting breath. 

The bed frame was thudding against the wall loudly. In sync with his thrusts. The lord and lady had apparently never tried this bed out since where it hit the wall, small bits of plaster would flutter down. The noise made a cacophony. 

“S-stop for a second.” Maeve gasped. He growled and leaned up off of her. She pulled a spare pillow from behind her and wedged it between the bed frame and the wall. She wiggled back under him. Sebastien looked at her questioningly.   
“I don't want the others to hear.” She explained, blushing. He laughed. It was a genuine, eye crinkling laugh. Maeve bit her lip, admiring the way his smile illuminated his features and erased the gloom he always carried with him. 

“I think we may be too late for that.” He said softly. He trailed his hand from her hip and down her thigh. His fingers rested in the crook of her knee, pressing slightly to see if she would follow him. She did. He hiked her thigh up to wrap around him. He tentatively pushed forward. Her fingers tightened on his arm.   
“That okay?” He asked, his gaze flickering between her eyes.   
“Yes. Yes yes yes. Please keep going.” Maeve urged. He nodded. 

He slowly worked the pace up to their previous cadence. Her hands traced over him, mapping the contours of his body then traveling them once more. She could feel his muscles moving just beneath his skin. She pecked a kiss to the corner of his mouth. His eyes were closed again, he was focused. He readjusted his grip on her leg and pulled her against him at a different angle. Her hands stopped their movement, simply holding him closer to her as he set a new, more punishing pace. 

She could feel the electricity sparking from where they were joined. She was going to come again with him. They would be even now as she saw it. She began whispering thank you’s under her breath, perhaps he could hear them and perhaps not...

He groaned as he came, whispering unintelligibly in French. His hips slammed into her harshly at the end, that roughness from the train tangible for just a moment. He let his weight settle against her more completely. 

Before he stilled, she slid her hand down between them, working herself towards the edge. She began to clench around him, throwing her head back against the pillow. She was gasping his name, her breath coming faster the closer she got. He cursed and pulled out of her. His hand left her thigh and went between her legs. He pushed three fingers into her and curled them up, thrusting them in time with her hand. She near screamed as she came, grabbing his shoulder tightly and biting her lip. Her thighs squeezed together around his hand and she slowed her fingers. Her mind felt hazy, clouded by the connection of his touch. 

He took his hand away from her and rolled to the side of the bed, off of her. They caught their breath in silence, on top of the sheets. 

He looked over to her after a while and she looked back.

“I would ask how it was, but you would probably get mad at me again.” He smiled. She couldn't help but grin back. If a tumble in the hay would put that smile on his face she would gladly take him again and again until he begged her to stop. 

“It was good.” She said, pushing herself up on her elbows and leaning next to him. “Consider your debt repaid.” She joked, running a finger over his arm. He regarded her.

“I almost wish it wasn’t.” He admitted. She smiled at him and moved closer to look down on him. Her lips hovered just above his, her hair framed their faces. 

“Maybe-” She said and kissed him. “-maybe now I’ll be in debt to you.” She kissed him again. 

“It's no debt. I consider it my duty.” He replied. Maeve sat up and moved to the side of the bed. She grabbed her dress off the floor and pulled the sleeves right side out again. 

“Mmm, no wonder your wife married an army man.” She said. 

He said nothing. She heard the bed behind her creak and she looked over her shoulder back to him. His back was to her. He was collecting his clothes off the floor. Maeve tossed her ripped clothing back to the floor and walked over to the dresser. She surveyed the variety of clothing presented to her. The lady of the house had taken all the expensive dresses with her, leaving just the best clothing behind for Maeve.

“I will go rejoin the others. They will be missing us now I suspect.” He said. 

He had dressed quickly. He came around to her side of the bed. He collected his books and the flask off the floor. He seemed upset again. Perhaps the post-coital glow faded quickly on him. His brow was knit once more. There was no smile to be found on his features. Perhaps what she had said about his wife had hurt his feelings. Either way, he quickly exited the room. The door swung shut behind him with a slam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway,,, write Booker smut so I dont have to skhgksfgs. Buy my silence for $10,000.


	5. And Onwards to Paris...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Umm, idk honestly I just was trying to fill in the gaps for the next sex scene dont @ me asdfghjk 
> 
> Okay but on an unrelated note, when I was looking for historical events that correlate with my time line I nearly shat my pants to discover that it overlapped perfectly with the June Rebellions aka the inspiration fOR LES MISERABLES. Les Mis was the first fandom I got hardcore into so I hope you all forgive the very blatant tips of the hat to mr Hugo's work. On God I will give my barricade boys a happy ending if I have to write it myself hundreds of years after the fact and almost decades after the movie aksjfghksfjg. Fun fact: I've never seen it live but my mom was 8 months pregnant with me when my dad took her so I guess that counts (even though I made her get up to pee every 10 seconds)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this follow up took so long, I wish Booker would fuck me as hard as my homework does.

Back downstairs, Andromache was rooting through all the drawers and cabinets in the house. They were never paid for what they did, so they had to find other ways to finance themselves. Joe was dividing what money or valuables they found into four canvas bags. Nicky was sealing envelopes with wax. 

“Ah! You found new clothes.” Josef said, regarding her. Maeve twirled in the grey farming dress she had taken. The fabric was well worn and soft which was unexpected. Andromache shook her head and shut a drawer closed with a snap. 

“How are we doing?” She asked Josef. 

“Better than usual. We could have even more if you’re willing to carry out the silverware.” 

After they had completed a task together, they were usually expected to split back up across the world. They would be reunited by fate when it was time for them to go to work again. Andromache felt that if they were to travel together, word would get around. If they were to be arrested, it would be better if it was just one of them alone. Andromache had learned her lesson with Quyhn. 

“Where’s Sebastien?” Andromache asked Maeve. The way Andromache asked made it seem that no one had heard them upstairs just moments before. Maeve felt relieved.

“I’m not sure, was it my turn to watch him?” She joked. Nicky grinned up at her from the desk chair.

“I’m sure he doesn't need babysitting.” Andromache said and walked out the doorway. Maeve raised her eyebrow and Josef shrugged. Sometimes it was hard to tell if Andromache didn't get a joke or was rather unamused by it. 

Maeve walked through the foyer to the servant’s kitchen. She opened drawers of utensils until she found the silverware. It was all polished perfectly. Not a speck of tarnish on any of it. It must have been a herculean task by the servants to maintain the sheen. Maeve used a spoon as a mirror to flatten her hair down where she saw it sticking up. Bed head in the middle of the day… No one seemed to notice. She filled her apron pocket with as much silverware as she could carry. 

Back in the office area, Maeve helped Josef divide the silverware between their bags. Josef and Nicky shared a bag, since they would be travelling together. The silverware would be good to trade. It was unmarked by any traceable seal, and its value could easily be tested. 

Maeve looked up as she heard running footsteps down the marble hall. The three of them looked at each other and reached for their weapons. Andromache burst through the entryway. 

“He’s gone.” She said. 

“What?” Maeve asked. 

“Sebastien. He left. One of the horses from the carriage is missing. Did he say anything about where he was going?” Andromache demanded. 

“I haven’t seen him since we started the letters.” Nicky said. Josef nodded in agreement. Maeve was quick to follow. Andromache pounded her fist against the wall and cursed. 

“He’s got too much of a head start. We’ll never find him if he doesn't want to be found.” Andromache groaned. Josef unceremoniously dumped one of the canvas bags out and started re-sorting their plunder. 

\------------------------------

Paris 1932

Maeve would forever note, that poor events hit all at once rather than spread themselves out over time. Perhaps this was since all the events were connected. if simply one was terrible at once, it would have been manageable. 

Maeve was tending cholera patients at a hospital when the barricades went up. General Lemarque had just died, sending shockwaves of grief through his supporters. The students were opposed to the overtaking of the police, as well as the squalor and sickness that was running rampant through the streets of Paris. When it rained it poured. 

The gunshots began to ring out soundly at dusk. Shortly after, the first bleeding wounded were dragged to her clinic on stretchers. There wasn't enough clean water to go around. The cholera patients needed drinking water, Maeve needed to wash her hands, the injured needed their wounds cleaned. Chaos shook the clinic. Maeve pulled bedsheets from unoccupied beds and began ripping them into bandages. She barked orders to the other nurses, praying that there were enough hands to go around. She prayed that no one would slip into oblivion without at least someone there to hold their hand. 

She tied a tourniquet above the elbow of a bleeding student. The silk was running low. Maeve wondered how many more feet of sutures the spool held… She held the needle over the lamp of oil, turning it until the tip glowed molten red. On the other end she very carefully measured and threaded a length of silk into the eye of the needle. Time was of the essence, she would inevitably be needed elsewhere. Years of applying the same stitches to the same types of wounds helped her hands fly over the flesh, knitting it together with a small length of thread.   
“Maury hush, she’s almost done.” The man who had brought the student to the clinic chided. Maeve tied off the end of the silk so the wound was held closed. She pulled her knife out of her stocking and trimmed the thread. Maeve uncorked a bottle of vodka someone had left under one of the cots. She poured it over the students' wound, rinsing the blood away from the gash. The student groaned in pain, his friend held him steady in the chair. Maeve washed her hands using a small amount of the remaining vodka. She stood and turned to leave. The injured man's friend caught her by the arm. 

“Please miss, we have wounded in the pub behind the barricade. They’re not likely to make it till morning unless they get some help. We can’t move them. The guards will shoot them if they try to leave.” He begged. Maeve looked at the horror in the young man's eyes. She didn't have the heart to tell him that anyone who was still behind the barricade come morning, was not likely to make it to see the sun. 

“Please, they’ll die. They're my friends.” The student was almost in tears. 

Maeve looked over the clinic. The other nurses all had their hands full. No one was looking up from their work.   
“Fine. Keep quiet on this alright?” Maeve grabbed a canvas bag off of a peg and started filling it with bandages. She stripped what little they could manage to spare from the clinic. The friend made a move to follow her when she turned to the door. She pushed him back with her hand. 

“No. You stay here. Watch your friend.” She insisted. 

“But-” He started.

“But nothing. You need to stand watch and see if the guard comes this way. Hide anyone with bullet or bayonet wounds. There’s a trap door in the supply closet that leads to a cellar.” She commanded. He stared for a moment before standing down. 

“Good luck, and miss, please stay safe.” He said, bowing as she left. Maeve nodded. She had no other choice. 

It was already deep dusk. The streets were bathed in a deep purple hue. Her boot heels clacked off the cobblestone. She glanced over her shoulders, checking every few moments for a soldier. She turned down a side alley. She had watched as the barricades went up. They were cobbled together by every odd and end of furniture that could be found. The fronts were monstrous things, standing at least ten feet high. It was to keep the soldiers from marching in. The side streets however, were cobbled together by just a few tables and chairs thrown hastily to deter passage. She undid her bag and threw it over the tower to the other side of the street. She prepared herself for the climb by hoisting up her skirts. 

“Halt! Who goes there?” Came a voice from down the corridor. She turned in fear to see a soldier sprinting down the alleyway. She looked back over to the furniture tower. It was too high to scale before he got to her. She turned, hands up, to her pursuer. 

“I’m a medic, I am here to treat the wounde-Sebastien?” She started, lowering her hands.

“Maeve?” He said, lowering the rifle. His hair had grown back in since the last time she had seen him. 

“What are you doing?” She asked him, gesturing to his uniform.

“Defending against the rebels.” He said. 

“You mean the students?” She asked. He scoffed. 

“I suppose.” He replied. “We have no wounded with the battalion. Wait, you were meaning to help the rebels? Are the others here?” He asked, indicating where she had thrown her bag over the barricade. She crossed her arms. 

“You mean helping the terrified children who huddle together in the dark clutching their wounds and waiting for a sunrise they shall never see? Yes. I intend to help those rebels. In any way I can. And to answer your other question: no. The others are not here. They are in America.” She turned to the barricade, motioning to climb it. He grabbed her by the shoulder, turning her to him. 

“I can’t let you do that.” He said. 

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?” Maeve said, shrugging out of his grasp. 

“I-they’re inciting riots! Disturbing the peace! Stealing from the people! I can’t let you help them.” He said. “We plan to charge the barricade at first light.”   
“They are uniformed children distraught with the lot thrust upon them by their rulers. They are taking arms up against the oppressors. I think you of all people should see the reasoning behind their cause.” She spat. 

“This sort of thing isn’t confined to just these few streets. The consequences of their actions will echo throughout all of Paris. The entirety of the town could crumble from their unrest. How many will fall until they are satisfied? How much will they steal from their brothers? What happens when they resist? What happens when the streets of Paris run with blood?” He asked. 

“Don't you see?” She hissed. “They’re already running with blood. Have you not looked outside lately? Mothers clutch their starving children to their breast with nothing to do about it. Men die covered in their own waste in the streets. The bourgeoisie sit pretty in their gilded mansions content to ignore their pestilent populace until it interferes with their indulgent lifestyles.” 

“I remember you delighting in those gilded palaces not too long ago.” He muttered. 

“As did you.” She replied. They regarded each other. 

“Do as you will. It doesn't matter to me.” He said, turning back down his guard route. An idea came to her. It was her turn to catch him by the sleeve. 

“Sebastien. Come with me.” She started. “Look into the eyes of those you condemn just once before the dawn. If we are not to see each other again after this night, at least let me give you something to think on for the surrounding decades.” 

“I think not, continue as you will.” He said, he stepped away from her. She could see his resolve fading. She had somehow managed to peck away at it with her vitriolic words. It was always their struggle. When Andromache bid them to do good, it never came with any instructions. They had to guess as best they could which of their actions would bring the world the most benefit. 

“Sebastien. If you’ve ever harbored any good will towards me, may I call on it now so that you will follow?” She held out her hand to him. He stopped and turned. He was glaring at her. She let her outstretched hand fall to her side. He shrugged off his uniform coat and rolled it into a bundle. She smiled in the dim and rising moonlight. He strung his bayonet over his shoulder. 

“I will give you an hour. No more. There is nothing you can show me that I have not seen a thousand times before.” He stated. He hid his uniform in a drawer of a desk that had been turned to its side, the cornerstone of that street's barricade. They surmounted the stack of furniture together. She retrieved her bag and turned towards the pub. The streets were surprisingly intact, asides from the shops and houses that had been gutted of furniture. Maeve could hear singing echoing down the street. Some bawdy pub tune no doubt intended to lift spirits.

“Who’s there?!” Came a shout from the campfire at the entrance to the inn. The singing stopped. The sudden silence was taught like a bowstring about to lose an arrow. 

“I’m a medic. Maury and the other one sent me.” She yelled back, her hands held up. She walked closer to the inn. Warning shots for medics were traditional. 

“And who’s with you?” Another voice yelled. 

“I-he’s.” She looked at Sebastien, who shrugged. “A doctor! He’s a doctor.” She said. She saw the two guardsmen look at each other and speak. From the distance she could not hear what they said. She saw them lower their guns. One of them ran over to them. She opened her mouth to greet them and they ran past her and to Sebastien.

“You’ve got to help us sir, we’ve got some badly wounded. We tried dressing them up best we could but, we’re no doctors.” The student gestured to the inn. 

Inside the inn were no more than 15 students. Less even, than a lecture class. Maeve quickly looked between them.   
“I-I told my mom bye today, n-not even knowing it would have been the last I see her. I would have said it differently if I would have known.” A shuddering voice came from the corner of the room. Maeve took an oil lamp from off a desk and followed the sound of the voice. Laid in the corner was a student with all sorts of shrapnel sticking out of his thigh. There was a large amount of blood under him. Maeve took her bag off her neck and started pulling out bandages.

“Sebastien. Help me.” She whispered to him, gesturing to the boy in the corner. She whispered in his ear as he walked past. “Hold him down, pretend you’re instructing me on what to do. Say whatever you like, I’ll do as I need.” Sebastien took the bayonet from off his shoulder and leaned it against the wall. She took a pair of pliers out of her bag. It was hard to use fingers to remove shrapnel when there was that much blood flowing. Sebastien gripped the boys shoulders. Maeve went to work.

\-------------------------

Once all the barricade boy’s wounds were mended, Maeve surveyed their precarious situation. 

“We need to sneak you out of here. They’re planning on storming the barricade at dawn.” She told who she assumed was the leader of them all. She saw Sebastien tense beside her. 

“How do you know this?” He demanded. Sebastien glanced at her.

“I heard some prick of a soldier bragging about it.” She said. Sebastien almost smiled. 

“We’ll get caught. There’s patrols all around.” The student said. “There’s no way to get everyone out, especially the wounded.”

“I think I know a passage that is safe.” She said. “I need you to go to the East entrance. At the bottom of the side barricade, right at the front, is a desk with a soldier’s uniform in it.” She looked at Sebastien to make sure this was okay. He made no move to correct her. She knew how powerful it could be to look an “enemy” in the eyes and realize just how human they were. 

“A soldier's uniform? How do you know that? Did you kill him?” The student asked. Maeve glanced at Sebastien. She thought back to their first meeting.

“Yes I did. I need you to get that uniform and pretend to be a guard. Say you’re leading some rebels to the prison or the firing squad or whatever you have to if you get found out. Pretend the others are your captives. Have them walk in front of you if you must.” Maeve continued. Sebastien handed the student his bayonet. 

“Take Silver street. You know the hospital there?” She asked. The student nodded. 

“Just get there. They’ll treat the rest of your wounds and give you a place to hide until this mess is sorted okay?” She asked. The leader of the rebels nodded.

“What will you do?” He asked.   
“We’ll watch here from the attic for torches and sound an alarm if we see a patrol headed your way. Once you’re out of these center streets we’ll lose sight of you and assume you made it. We’ll leave after that. The army does not shoot medics. Or at least they're not supposed to.” She explained. Really, it would make no difference if the army shot medics or not. 

The student nodded and saluted her.   
“God bless you miss.” He said, and rallied his troops. They held the injured across their shoulders, sharing the burden. 

“Remember, live to fight another day.” She said. 

She watched as the students helped each other up as their leader came to them. One of them hoisted the shrapnel boy over his shoulder. They exited the pub. Maeve watched as their torches faded around the winding stacks of furniture that made their fortress. Her heart was with them, fearful for them. She had seen too many young men cut down in the name of order. She prayed these few survived. It would be a time before their torches were out of sight. Dawn was still a ways off, yet she felt fear curling in her stomach as to whether or not her and Sebastien would get out in time. 

“What changed your mind on staying?” Maeve asked Sebastien as they took their watch in the attic. 

“You were right. They're just boys. They have no idea what they're doing. They remind me of me so many moons ago...” He said and plopped himself into a chair with a leftover bottle of wine. She looked over to him. It was odd that even though they did not physically age, there was a sort of shroud of senescence that settled over their shoulders as the years went on. She doubted any other immortal could hide from them even without the dreams. The years would take their toll. Maeve poured the last of the water into a bowl. She used a rag to wipe blood off her arms. They sat in silence as the torches grew more distant in the warped glass windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves, the emo is coming...


	6. Summer Night In Paris*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have been informed by my lovey beta that this chapter elicited emotions. I was feeling uncharacteristically wistful/mournful/romantic when writing this, so enjoy it while it lasts cos I'll probably zoom over back into dirty boning pretty soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Booker dipping out after they bone had become sort of a Thing tm so I wanted to remedy it a bit by building some intimacy and giving some background connections as to like, why they can vibe wit each other. I usually don't go this deep into my OC's backgrounds so hopefully thats okay with y'all that I did this time. I got it out of my system so now we can focus on the [right pointing finger + ok emoji] Basically, if I could make Maeve a nature witch she would be because she's based on my DND character who's a druid.

“How do you handle it?” Sebastien asked. Maeve rinsed off her fingers in a porcelain basin. 

“Handle what?” She asked, drying her hands on her apron.

“Not knowing if you’re right or wrong at any time. Trying to do the right thing but inevitably failing.” He said, drinking from the wine bottle. 

“We try to do better the next time. It's all we can do.” She said. 

“So we have hundreds of years to commit countless mistakes?” He said. 

“We would make countless mistakes in a single lifetime. This way we get more years to avoid them.” She said. He chuckled wryly and took another deep drink. The struggle of purpose was difficult for her to grapple with, even now. She had worked so hard to save people. But what did it matter? It bought them mere years at the best, months, in typicality. Why save them if their death was inevitable? What good did it do to save them just so they could suffer under the crushing weight of mortality for longer? 

“My wife died of cholera. Two years ago.” Sebastien said. His words hung heavy in the empty air.

“I’m sorry.” Maeve said. The first rash of deaths could be particularly hard to bear. They really drove home the fact that while the world kept on turning, the self did not. Maeve had only her mentor to watch die, but she felt it as if she were family all the same.

“She looked like death incarnate at the end. Some shriveled skeleton of a human. There was nothing I could do for her.” He explained. “You told me once that I would understand our solitude once everyone I ever loved turned to ashes in the wind. I have a better grasp of what you meant now.”   
Maeve bit her lip. Facing a recent death doubled the severity of what she had said. She turned to look at him. He looked crestfallen. All the wind was out of his sails. She opened her mouth to offer him platitudes once more, but he cut her off. 

“Why couldn't it have been me instead of her? She would have done so much better with this curse than I. What have I done? Squandered it for years. Doing nothing. Changing nothing. I might as well be dead for all I’ve done!” He stood up suddenly, casting the wine bottle to a wall where it shattered. He backhanded the chair he was sitting on and it fell away. Maeve walked over and pulled his arms down to his sides, keeping him from destroying anything more. 

“But you are alive. You have a hundred lifetimes to prove that you’re alive.” She shook him to reinforce her words. She pulled up the hand he had hit the chair with. His knuckles were cut. 

She remembered what it was like when she watched her mentor die. 

Titania was already old when Maeve was turned, she had managed to escape the witch burnings by joining a convent. Maeve had snuck into her room the night she died. Titania’s eyes were clouded over by cataracts, she did not see the young woman climb through her window. But when the wind shifted she smelled her.  
“Nightshade? My little nightshade?” Her voice had croaked. Maeve took her gnarled hands in her own.  
“Aye sister, it is me.” Maeve said.  
“Oh pish tosh.” Titania wheezed in laughter. “Don’t ‘sister’ me, my sprout. I just wanted a place to lay my head at night that had a pillow instead of a pike.” Although the old woman’s words came slow through weakened breath, the humor and wit popped like a cinder.  
“I am sorry to find you so late, I-” Maeve started.  
“Shh nightshade shh, I am just pleased to have confirmation you yet live.” She cackled, her cold fingers curling slightly against Maeve’s.  
“Confirmation?” Maeve asked. The only people who knew Maeve was still alive after her drowning was the crew of others that had been touched by the same gift.  
“I knew they could only hold you under for so long before you bobbed back up.” Titania whispered which segued directly into a coughing fit. “The leaves told me. They whisper their secrets to me, you know.” She continued. The old lady was mad, she had been headed that way for a while. The pneumatic fever that boiled her body had only exacerbated it.   
“I know they do T, just rest.” Maeve brushed Titania’s transparent white hair off her sweaty brow. Every moment of consciousness seemed to drain her strength away.   
“They have a message for you. They say to-to keep. Looking.” Titania struggled for the words. The old woman's fingers weakened in her hands.   
“For what T? What am I to look for?” Maeve asked. The air just trickled out of Titania’s lungs. 

Her final breath was not some grand indication of death. It came without any pomp and circumstance. It came not dissimilar to the thousands of other breaths she had taken in her life. It was ugly for it to come so weakly. There was no pomp and circumstance. Just a body finally content to give up its work. Still, so much pain was awarded to something so simple...

Maeve held Sebastien’s hand in her own. “Dead men don’t bleed.” She said, brushing her fingers over his injury. He winced as his skin knitted over.   
“Dead men don't feel pain.” She said. She let go of his hand and it fell to his side.   
“Dead men don’t feel anything.” Maeve whispered. “You are alive. Do not discount that. You are the keeper of their memories now.”

It was the smallest of comforts she knew to offer him. Time would have to heal the rest. 

She was thinking of the students, fearfully making their way through the dim city streets. No matter if they made it or not, one day their bodies would be cooling on the earth. All that remained of them would be words etched in stone and her memories of bright faced boys hung haggard by the woes of the world. She had seen it a hundred years ago and she would see it a hundred years from now. It was a curse indeed. Just as he had said. A curse to remember and a curse to feel it all the same. She tried to keep herself from crying. Once again it would not do.   
But, her heart had gone out to the young renegades. And where attachment formed, heartache would soon follow. She would live to see them all be buried. And for what? What had she done? Bandaged a few wounds? How had that helped the students achieve the end to which they were willing to lay their lives down for? Their remaining years were all they had, and they sought to end them so soon… 

“I tried to end it. To die by my own hand.” He admitted in the dim candlelight. He was leaning back against the wall, as if he couldn’t support himself any longer.

“We all have. At one point or another.” She assured him. “It gets tiring to live the same day over and over for eons. We see the same faces come and go each decade until eventually you see nothing you recognize at all. The world changes around us and we are stuck. Ghosts of days past living in the world of tomorrow.” She said. Maeve rarely faced this darker side of immortality. Whereas Sebastien seemed to abide in it.

“And yet we’re alive.” He said. 

“And yet we’re alive.” She agreed. She put her hand over his heart, to feel the pulse beating there. It seemed almost unnatural that they should still have that thudding in their chest just as any other person on the street. 

“Remind me I’m alive.” He asked, placing his hand over hers. “Let me feel something other than pain.” He prayed, almost to someone other than her. He leaned down to kiss her. 

Maeve kissed him back. She would be glad to fill the void in her heart with anything other than misery. He cupped her face with both of his hands. She was glad she did not cry now, otherwise her tears would have dampened his cheek. She was not yet used to kissing him. Sometimes he could be sweet, hesitant, like a boy just behind the schoolyard. Other times he kissed her like it was the only way to ground himself to reality. This was one of the strange times, where she could not glean his intentions from the brush of his lips against her own. His teeth scraped her lip, as if he was just holding himself back from hurting her. Then he would soothe the area with his tongue. Never pushing forward, never instigating anything beyond a kiss. She grabbed the front of his tunic, pulling him with her until the back of her legs hit the front of a vanity. He picked her up and placed her onto it. She pulled out the bow on her apron, letting it flutter to the floor. 

“I felt bad. The first times we were together.” He said as she untied his trousers. “I had a wife and three children at home. And there I was taking comfort in the arms of a strange woman.” He pulled Maeve to the edge of the vanity, pushing her dress up her legs. She pulled his shirt up and over his head. She wanted to touch him. To feel the heat radiating from his skin and into her hands. His body was coarse, with muscled planes interlocking.

“I realize now that my family died the same day I did.” He explained as Maeve pushed his underwear down his hips. She was rushing him onwards. He was not stopping her. Merely letting her command him to fit her needs. He was content with his monologue. 

“I am a new man now. Although I am not yet sure what kind...” He sighed as she took him in hand and guided him to her. He held her hips steady as she teetered over the side of the vanity. He kissed her, his tongue gentle and delicate against her greedy pushes. She pulled him forward by his ass, trying to get him to enter her. She was impatient, she wanted to get to the point where the world faded away in a rush of hot, hurried, euphoria.

“You’re not ready yet-I can’t-” He started to correct her. 

“Let me feel something.” She whispered, pulling him to her again. He sunk into her just barely. She gasped and bit her lip. He made a movement to pull out but she caught him by wrapping her legs around him.  
“Even pain.” She commanded. 

He shuddered at her words in his ear. He obliged her, but some part of his conscience did not allow him to be so rough so soon. He picked up the hem of her dress and pushed it farther up her waist. His hand slipped between them, his fingers dancing against the apex of her thighs. His fingers worked her softly as he rolled his hips to her. She was still pulling him against her, her head falling back. With his other hand he held her neck, supporting some of the weight. 

Her thighs started twitching around him and she reached between them, pulling his hand away.  
“I’m sorry, did I-” She cut him off by kissing him hard, slipping her tongue into his mouth. She felt the rumble when he groaned. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer to her. She wanted to feel the heat from his body radiate through her. She wanted his warmth to push out all other feelings.

“Just hold me.” She asked, holding him tightly to her. He nestled his head into the crook of her neck. His hands wrapped around her hips and held fast. He was fucking her now, bouncing her against him as the vanity rattled. She moaned just for him to hear. They didn't have to be quiet this time. The inn as well as the surrounding streets were abandoned. 

Maeve loved to feel his muscles flex and tense under her fingers, in sync with his movements. They were close together now, holding each other tighter than they had in times past. It was intimate, the way they wrapped around each other like snakes. They were pressing against each other, holding each other up. Each gasp, whimper, and moan from one brought the other closer to the end. 

His thrusts were getting less controlled now, indicative of his stamina. He pulled her thighs up higher around him, hooking them over his hips. She growled and dragged her blunt nails down his back. This was a tad too much.

“Fuck!” He cursed, gripping her thighs so tightly there would be red marks when he let go. He chased his end, cut faster now from the mingling of pain in the pleasure. Her cries were lifting in pitch until finally, nothing. He came first, with her not far behind. They held each other fast, until all the aftershocks had dissipated. They pulled apart to catch their breath, the humid heat of the Paris summer hanging heavy in the air. She caressed his arm. He seemed transfixed on another point in time. She slid herself off the edge of the vanity and pushed her skirt down. His arms were on either side of her, he stepped back just enough so she could stand.

“Sebastien?” Maeve started. He already looked lost in thought, reality was already creeping back in…   
“Mm.” He acknowledged. She brushed a knuckle against his cheek.   
“For this second life? You will be whatever kind of man you want to be.” She said, kissing his neck as she re-tied his trousers.   
“That is what I am afraid of.” He replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys really gotta tell me what you prefer because On God we gonna write you some booker smut y'all. I personally love the idea of really rough angry hate sex for booker because have you seen that dude? Man needs an outlet for his emo-ness and personally? My arms and legs are open. But.... on the other hand, he seems like he couldn't mentally handle doing that with someone unless he's like, pretty sure his partner was down. So in order to build that sort of relationship where yeah they are intimate enough to get into each others likes and wants, they need to bond. So in order to bond actual emo emotional intimate sex? Idk what do y'all wanna see. I have Ideas of course but I'll probably be more motivated to write if I know people are waiting to see a lil somthin somethin.


	7. South of Santa Fe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeve rediscovers her roots in the homeland (America.) Her and Booker work together to wrangle the wild of the West. Also, briefly covers where Booker gets his nickname.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obvi I'm a south westerner from this. We didn't cross the border the border crossed us!

New Mexico Territory 1842

The horse’s hooves beat across the dusty plains. The midday heat made waves of hot air wiggle up just above the surface of the ground. Frightened birds scattered from drooping pinon trees. Maeve was drawing a dark line across the desert on top of a pitch black draft horse. spurring her horse onwards with her heels. The weight was distributed differently. This was due to the cargo bouncing and squirming on the back.

Bounty hunting seemed to be a perfectly suited profession if one were immortal. It explained why one would travel alone (So no money had to be split.) It explained any miraculous recovery and added to one’s reputation (The enemy’s guns did misfire very frequently didn't they?) And to Maeve, it sure as hell felt great to be doing good back in the motherland. Although, Salem was very different from the desert plains near Santa Fe.

Maeve looped her horses reins around the hitching post. She had gotten into town just before nightfall. The water in the trough was a bit muddy, but she had seen the mare drink far worse. The man tied to the back of her horse started yelling through his gag.  
“You do know your bounty is dead or alive right? So I wouldn’t go pissing me off right about now.” Maeve said. Swatting the man's back with a glove. He fell silent. She turned to the stairs up to the sheriff's office.

“I’m here for the bounty on The Cutter. You want him in here or delivered to the gallows of your choice?” Maeve asked, and tossed her riding gloves onto the sheriff’s desk. The sheriff was all too happy to have Maeve perusing his county. She did the majority of the bounty work for him. All he had to deal with was the townsfolk. They both thought they had the easy job.

“A-about that ma’am, there’s a Texas ranger here who might have something to say on that. He’s in the ammunition shed, let me go get him.” The sheriff stammered as he made his way to the back porch. Maeve nodded and walked to the bounty postings.

She ripped The Cutter’s bounty off the nail and folded it into her pocket. This one was a special one to find. He had been working his way through the southern territory’s brothels. Instead of payment, he would carve an X into the working woman's chest. Maeve knew that if anything, the West was won on the backs of the working girls. They kept society flowing in an area that had no standard for human law. She was glad she was the one to be able to hogtie him and hoist him onto a horse. She heard the porch door swing open and she turned to look.  
“Oh fuck me.” Maeve said. The sheriff gasped at her language. Sebastien groaned.

\------------

_“We really must stop meeting like this.”_ Maeve greeted him in French. The sheriff squinted.  
“That we must. The sheriff was just telling me that you have Thomas Redcliffe in custody.” He redundantly showed her the silver star on his vest.  
“I do. He also thinks you may be a problem for me collecting my bounty.” The west was not a cheap place to live if one had no means of production.  
“It may be. I was instructed to deliver him to the Texas corrections agency for sentencing. I do not know if they will giving out rewards.” Sebastien replied.  
“Do you give out rewards?” Maeve asked. The sheriff tskked at her blatant flirting. There was something about the thrill of the chase that had Maeve’s blood boiling.  
“Now here ma’am Booker is premier ranger for-”  
“Booker?” Maeve interrupted.  
“Why yes ma’am, he has earned himself a bit of a reputation in booking some of the most notorious and wily criminals in the name of the Texas law. It was him who brought down the Suggins gang!” The sheriff himself seemed a little star struck.  
“When do I get a cute nickname for bringing in my guys?” Maeve asked. The sheriff stuttered. Maeve wasn’t sure how many people “Booker” had brought in, but Texas was under the United States jurisdiction, the NM territory wasn’t. That means that New Mexico caught a lot of the overflow of criminals looking to get out from under the long arm of the law. The smart ones, anyway. Maeve was trying to turn the tide to spill back into Texas.  
_“Probably when you have a penis. You know how these things are.”_ Sebastien said in French. His demeanor did not betray the filth from his joke. She laughed and nodded. The sheriff looked between them. He was beginning to feel like the odd man out.  
“Shall we alleviate my horse of her burden?” Maeve suggested, and gestured out of the room. Sebastien nodded. They walked out front to the hitching post.

“Where is he?!” The sheriff gasped, agog to see the horse with no bounty. Maeve glanced sideways down the street. The lights were on at the Valentine. She started running that way.  
“Now how in the-” The sheriff started.  
“He didn’t take the horse.” Sebastien yelled, running behind Maeve. “He’s somewhere nearby.” The sheriff started to follow them, but quickly fell behind, wheezing.

Maeve burst through the brothel doors. Women looked away from their clients.  
“Who’s upstairs?” She yelled, the room went silent. Serenity, the madam, looked quickly through her girls.  
“We’re missin’ Jade, Sugar, and Calliope.” She replied.  
“Any of them go with a stranger? Someone new? Not her client?” Maeve demanded. The girls looked between each other. Madam Serenity shrugged.  
“Both Sugar and Calliope.” Flo squeaked from the back.

Maeve ran to the stairs just as the sheriff made it through the front doors. Maeve could feel Sebastien running behind her. She was praying it wasn't too late. She whipped a finger down the corridor. “Check the room with the musical note. I’ll find Sugar.” She commanded him. They split up. Maeve’s boots slammed heavy on the hardwood of the hallway. She withdrew her pistol from its holster. She got to the room with the sugar bowl painting. Instead of knocking, Maeve simply slammed her boot heel against the door handle. With the sound of splintering wood, the door flew open. Maeve rushed into the room.

A heavy force knocked her off balance. Maeve hit her head against a dresser and watched as her gun fell from her hand and slid out of her reach. A rough hand wrapped around her neck and pulled her up. Maeve saw stars as she was slammed back into the side of the wall.  
When her vision returned, The Cutter was grinning at her, yellowed teeth poking out over his chapped lips. His breath smelt like carrion. The hand on her neck tightened and Maeve grabbed it with her hands, trying to pull it off. He was far too strong. Maeve’s eyes widened as the cutter drew up a knife under her chin. Her air was cut off and she opened and closed her mouth like a fish, scratching herself against the knife’s blade, but desperate for air.

“Shouldn’t have interrupted us. I was hoping for a little time. One last hoor reminded of her sin. But, I suppose bounty hunters are just as good.” The Cutter grinned at her and moved the knife down to her chest. Maeve’s vision was going. She prayed Sebastien realized the mistake soon. She knew she wouldn’t die, but she didn’t fancy having to leave town after being exposed. Maeve could feel her consciousness slipping just as the knife ripped through the skin on her collarbone.

BANG. Sebastien heard the gunshot just as he turned the hallway. He ran to the open doorway. He prayed the working woman was still alive. Maeve had been known to seek vengeance.

“Good timing Sugar.” Maeve wheezed as she tried to catch her breath. Sugar lowered the pistol and stumbled back onto the bed. Booker ran into the room and surveyed the scene. He looked from Maeve, to The Cutter’s bleeding body, to a shocked Sugar. Sugar’s eyes seemed stuck open and staring.

Booker slowly walked over to her and took the gun from her hand. Maeve caught her breath and leaned up, surveying The Cutter’s body. Sugar had essentially brained him. There was a Maeve shaped clean space on the wall surrounded by gore.  
“Does your bounty say dead OR alive?” Maeve asked, wiping her face of The Cutter’s filth.  
“Unfortunately not.” Sebastien said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Praying that the italics work to show when they are speaking in another language.


	8. The Wind in the Willows*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This sexy little scene is more from Bookers perspective so uhhhh. lmk how y'all vibe with that. Also, I'm dead ass on my river commentary dkjhfskg. Don't peg yourself as a tourist by following this one easy linguistic trick!

Maeve had quickly snuck off to the river while the sheriff and Booker made sense of the scene. It was self defense, plain and simple, but still a telegram had to be sent to inform the Rangers office, a person had to be named responsible for the damage to the brothel door. Someone also had to pick up the tab for the cleaning fees. Plus the coffin had to be arranged, depending on whether or not the rangers office wanted the body for confirmation. Booker had thought that Maeve had wanted the gore gone as soon as possible from her face and hair, but maybe she was simply avoiding the paperwork. Nevertheless, Sugar was very thankful to her, which she begged Booker to pass onto Maeve. 

After everything was sorted, he saddled his horse and turned down the path to the river. He wanted some feedback from Maeve and he had a message to pass on. As well as some questions for her of his own. He breathed in deep, the smell of the sage and juniper was something unique to the Americas. It was a perfume he had not smelled elsewhere. There was something about the new world that seemed fresh. He would call it a new start, but really the land itself was mostly unmarred by the gauche buildings of older towns like Paris or even Boston. 

The ride to the river was a pleasant one, not too far, but far enough away for the dim lights of the town to fade into the dark. At least, it felt like darkness until there was no artificial light. The moon was near full, making the ground of the desert as clear as if it were day. Crickets chirped loudly from bushes and cicadas were singing in the cottonwood trees. There was a romance to the wildness of the west. An untamed sort of beauty.

He heard the river before seeing it. The rush of the water sounded like dried leaves skittering across the dirt. He dismounted and led his horse to where Maeve had tethered hers. There was an animal trail leading down to the river bank, imperceptible, unless you were looking for it. Maeve’s clothes were tossed haphazardly along the bank. He could imagine her stripping as she slinked towards the river. It seemed whenever he thought of her, she was slinking. It was a very intentional grace she carried. He had not thought of her for a long while, not since coming to America… He briefly wondered if she had thought of him since Paris. 

She was bathing in the middle of the river. Her skin seemed stark white against the dark backdrop of the reeds. He watched as rivulets of water trickled down her back. In the pale moonlight, it was quite a sight to behold. He licked his lips.

“The Rio Grande river is an interesting choice for a bathtub, especially when there are plenty of hot water tubs in town.” He said. Maeve jumped when she first heard him, but made no move to cover herself after realizing who it was. After all, it would be pointless, there was no more modesty between them to preserve. 

“The tubs in town are not free. And don’t call it the Rio Grande river. Do you speak Spanish? Do you know what Rio means?” She chided and squeezed water out of her hair. He chuckled to himself and walked closer to the edge of the bank. He watched as she waded through the water towards him. Under any other circumstances, he would make the effort not to stare, but he was only human after all. 

“Hand me my clothes would you? I need to work the blood out of them before it sets.” She directed. He collected her skewn clothes and handed them to her. She dipped them in the slow flowing shallows near the shore, rinsing the blood out. He wondered if she had thought this through. Her horse did not seem to have any extra gear on it aside from its saddle. Was she intending to wear wet clothes back into town? Perhaps she had been more rattled by the Cutter than she had let on. 

“Do you have a towel?” He asked as she wrung her clothes out. He could see the gooseflesh adding a topography to her normally smooth skin. 

“No.” She sighed. “All my things are back at the inn. I needed to drop weight to bring the bounty in.” She continued washing her clothes.

“I’ll get mine. Wait here.” He said. and walked back to his horse. He took the camping pack and bedroll down from the saddle. When he came back, she was spreading her clothes out across the willows to dry. He wished that they would spend more time together outside of the team's duties. He would love to simply watch her move around, bare naked with no shame, for as long as she would let him. But, he would also prefer not to watch her freeze to death.

“Here.” He said, holding out a nightshirt and the bedroll to her. She pulled the nightshirt down. It fell down her thighs just above the knee. Her skin was still wet, making it cling around her body and turn semi-transparent. He was sad to see her wrap the bedroll around herself. 

“T-thank you.” She stammered, shivering in the slight breeze. 

“I’ll make a fire.” He suggested, and began collecting bracken from the river edge. 

Soon they had their own little light in the darkness. She gave up the bedroll for them to sit on next to the fire. She cuddled up close to him, sapping the heat from his body, sticking her sandy toes as close to the fire as she could stand. 

“You know, I like the name Booker. You seem like a Booker.” She said. 

“Is that so?” He asked.

“Yes, you know our names change over time. As things change. As we change.” She continued. 

“So what is your real name?” He asked. She groaned.

“Oh, I should have known this was coming. It was Maeveris. When I was born I mean.” She sighed.

“You do not like your name?” He asked. 

“It just doesn’t seem like me any more. I know Maeve is not far off from the original, but it clicks better. It just fits.” She explained. 

“I like it, sounds like a fairy’s name or something. Maeveris.” He said.

“Tsk, no it doesn’t, and you better not call me that.” She commanded. 

“Maeveris.” He said again, taking extra care to push his accent to the fringes of pronunciation with it. 

“Stop it, c’mon, I’ll have to kill you again.” She joked. 

“Maeveri-” He started again. She covered his mouth with her hand to keep him from continuing. He stared at her eyes which were reflecting the fire light. Her joking face faded into something altogether different. She removed her hand from his mouth to see if he would finish, her cold finger were hovering over his lips just in case he started again. He did not. She traced his chin with her fingertips and leaned in to peck a quick kiss onto his lips. He combed his fingers through her hair and brought her back to him more urgently. She wrapped her arms around his neck and obliged him wholeheartedly, kissing him as if it were the first time. 

“Finally.” He though in the back of his mind. He had been hoping things would follow along this sort of path ever since he had seen her in the river. 

She broke their kiss and worked her way down his jaw, then neck, then collarbone. She pushed his shoulder gently, indicating for him to lean back. He tensed. 

“C’mon, let me just take care of you for once.” She whispered, and continued kissing him over his clothes. He laid back down on the bed sheet.

She crawled down his body, kissing herself a path until she got to the buttons of his jeans. She dragged a nail against the denim. It sent a very strange vibration through the fabric. She leaned up to straddle him and she undid the button and pulled his pants down. 

_ “My god-”  _ He cursed as she wrapped her lips around him. He didn’t think he was cold, but her mouth felt almost burning hot. He wanted to put his hands in her hair, to ground him somewhat. He knew as soon as he had a grip, he would not be able to keep himself from fucking her mouth. He was barely keeping himself from doing it now. 

She bobbed her head, working herself further and further down his length until-. Fuck. The tip of her nose bumped against his stomach. He let out a burst of air he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Two hundred years of practice definitely counted for something. 

She hummed around him, hollowing her cheeks and his hips did buck up into her mouth. She pulled off of him to cough a little bit. She leaned back over him to resume before he stopped her. 

_ “You can’t keep doing that, I'm going to come. Let me at least feel you.”  _ He managed, his face red. It had been too long since he had last done that. His body was unaccustomed to the sensation.

“Are you sure?” Maeve asked. He nodded and wiped the sweat off of his brow. She shrugged.

She would oblige him in whatever his wishes were. She pulled his pants down a little further and climbed on top of him. The glow from the fire had died down enough that it was acting almost like a shadow puppet screen. He could see through his nightshirt to her naked body underneath. God above, this was not going to be a great night for his stamina. 

She slowly lowered herself until she could feel him. She reached between them to guide him into her. They both groaned as she sunk down onto him, adjusting slowly. The fabric of his nightshirt tickled his thighs. Maeve bit her lip when she bottomed out. He wondered if she knew what she was doing to him or if it was all by accident. She rolled her hips tentatively. He moved to meet her.

“You set the pace. This is for you.” She whispered, leaning down to kiss him quickly. She put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. He pushed the hem of the nightshirt up her thighs so he could hold her hips. He began to set the pace.

There was something grand about fucking her while she was wearing his clothes. It was as if she was doubly claimed, if only for the night. It was something he had liked when his wife had done too. It was this perfect sort of sharing, only he shared more with Maeve now than he had with his wife. Three sons, three consummations, that's what they had done. He had tried to do right by her, whenever it was time to try. It was an arranged marriage, but he had grown to love her all the same, he hoped she had loved him as well. 

Maeve’s gasp of his name snapped him out of his past. She must have been getting close, she was bouncing in his lap with no care for his rhythm, just desperately seeking the end. He liked to watch her lose herself like this. Normally, she was so perfectly together, so straight laced, so unshakeable. He loved seeing her unravel. He would have to work harder tonight if she was going to come before him. 

He braced himself with his elbows, lifting his ass up off the ground as he labored to fuck her harder, give her more. She almost squealed when he would let her down, allowing gravity to slam her against him. The first few times of this had her legs quaking. Maeve fell forward, holding herself up with her elbows on either side of his head, leaning across his chest. 

Her breasts were swaying near his face now, it was nearly obscene. He had the passing desire to try and bite one. So he did. She yelped and tensed around him when his teeth scraped across her flesh. He felt her tighten around his cock in a way that caught him off guard. So much so, that he threw his head back and groaned his release as he kept fucking her. It was white hot pleasure ripping through his body at the speed of lightning. Every muscle in his body tensed then went slack. She was still riding him, even as he softened inside of her.

_ “S-stop stop, please stop, it's too much.” _ He grimaced. She whimpered and relaxed in his lap, panting hard. She moved to roll off of him but he held her firmly in place by her hips.

“I thought you said-” She started. He chuckled through his heavy breathing. 

_ “I did. I did, just give me a moment. I’m not done with you.” _ He sighed. 

“You’ll never let me just spoil  you , will you?” She breathed, her fingers gripping his shoulders tightly. 

“I hope not.” He grinned. 

Her face was contorted in the chase for release. The flickering glow from the fire seemed to match the heat he was feeling inside. 

He watched her body shift with each gasp of breath, her head was tilted back. He watched the muscles in the column of her throat flex as she sighed his name. His right hand worked to get her off. His left wandered over her body, moving under and over the nightshirt as he pleased. He finally felt as if he was learning her better now. He would guess that he was better at picking out what she wanted, what she liked. If the way she was mumbling his name was any indication, he was right. There was a certain way her brow crinkled when she was about to go over the edge.

“oh-Sebastien I-” She mumbled, trying to tune him in on what he already knew.

_ “Try Booker.” _ He suggested. She let out a half-laugh, half-moan. He gripped her hip harder with his left hand. He was starting to catch on that she liked it a little rough. 

“Fuck! Booker!” She yelped when his blunt nails bit into her flesh. She came hard. He felt her tense beneath his hands then go slack again. She shivered again as if she were cold, but he knew this was not the case. It took her a long time to catch her breath and come back to the realm of consciousness. She laid across his chest, rubbing her face against him like a cat. He decided that perhaps, he did quite like the name Booker. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SAVE A HORSE RIDE A COWBOYYYYY YEEEEEE HAWWWWWW!!! Me: Well obviously Booker slips into French when he's overwhelmed. Ya know, Overwhelmed...


	9. Gardening in Versailles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well uhhhh if y'all haven't seen the movie A Little Chaos with our man, its on Netflix and obvi a lowkey Inspo for the .2 second start to this chapter. Anyway its going to get emo in here brace yourselves lol. I do love me the Drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A billion thanks to diedremagnusdottir for beta-ing this for me (as well as the other chapters since the??? Third I think? Wherever it starts getting better) There's nothing more fun than us straight up memeing in the comments on Maeve and Booker. #roasted  
> Go check out her fic Je t'attendrai also about Booker 👀

Versailles 1852

Maeve shook the paper sachet so the seeds would settle to the bottom. She took the crayon out of her apron and marked the date, species, and seed count. Preparing to winterize the fall stock was a herculean task. But one she did not trust any one person to collect the seed. She needed to know that every single seed was salvaged even if that meant going to a poppy bud with a magnifying glass. 

It seemed strange to the others that Maeve would choose to spend her off time working in the employ of the bourgeoisie. But to her, it made perfect sense. There was hardly any garden funded more than Versailles. All sorts of foreign and uncommon plants were continually being shipped in. The growing season was long and the storehouses were plentiful. What medicinal properties the many plants may hold was entirely the allure of working there. 

Someone cleared their throat from the doorway.  
“Yes?”  
“Madame, there is someone at your villa to see you.” The courier said. Maeve sighed.  
“Tell them the lavender shipment won't be in until next week and it will be a long time after that until they are ready to be transplanted.” She slipped the next seed packet into the sorter.  
“Er, he is not from the floral garden team. He did not give a name but he seems to know you. He asked for you by name. Er, first name.” The courier noted. 

Maeve set the crayon down and took her apron off. The mention of her first name was odd, since everyone at Versailles called her Madame Ellébore.  
“Was he alone?” She asked. If someone from the team was here early, then that could only mean something was wrong.  
“Yes, as far as I could tell, he was.” 

She weaved her way through the busy courtyard and to the set of workers apartments. The further out of the heart of Versailles she got, the quieter it became. As the city of Paris pushed farther outward, the wilderness of Versailles seemed to remain, at least for the moment. There was a sense of organized chaos permeating through the many mazes, fountains, and ballrooms. 

Maeve’s villa was at the very end of the row of housing. She could tell by the silhouette standing at her door who it was. 

“Booker? I thought we all weren’t meeting up until-are you okay?” When he turned to her, he looked as if he had been sent through a cloth wringer. 

“I’m sorry to come without warning but. I needed…” His voice trailed off as he shook his head. He ran his hand through his hair. Maeve took her key out of her pocket, quickly unlocking her door. 

“What’s happened?” Maeve asked as she ushered him inside. Her villa was small, just enough room for one person to live comfortably. 

“My son died.” He said, turning back around to watch her as she shut the door behind her.

“Your son?” She asked. She thought he had forsaken his family (or rather, been forsaken) many many years ago. 

“My youngest son. Jean-Pierre. I watched him die today. Were he still conscious he would not have allowed me there.” Booker continued.

Maeve didn’t know what to say, but she figured ‘I told you so’ was not what he wanted to hear.  
“Cancer took him.” Booker scoffed. “Forty-two. He died older than I will ever be.” 

He said, he was leaning against the table as if it was the only thing holding him up. Maeve put her hand on the counter. She did not know whether to step closer to him or move away so he could sit.

“You told me once that I would live to see everything I once loved turn to ashes. You did not mention what happens before, and that it is worse than the pain of losing them.” He wiped his face. She could not tell if he was crying or not.

“What do you mean?” She tried. She had the sense that she was walking a tightrope. On one side was him shutting down and storming off, just when he needed someone close. On the other side was saying something that would hurt him more, cause him more pain. 

“He knew about me Maeve. How could he not? He asked me for the secret to my immortality. I said that if I knew how to give it, he would never have been laid into a hospital bed.” 

Maeve continued to look at how he was slumped against the table, as if he were drunk. She would have smelled it on him though. No, he was knocked off balance by the weight of his own grief. His humanity hung heavy on his shoulders. This was something she had hoped he had left behind after her many warnings. But he was only a man. 

“He said I didn’t love him. That I was keeping this curse from him out of spite or-” His voice grew choked by emotion. 

Maeve felt ashamed that she had underestimated the impact losing his family had had on him. She supposed it should have been self explanatory. The whole reason he had deserted the army was to find them again. In doing so, he had assured they would never be together in this life. In all this pain he felt, Maeve knew there was little she could do to alleviate it. 

She wished she would have found him in Paris all those years ago and forced him to go back to his family, to spend any remaining time they had left together. Perhaps even those few years would preserve his soul. She wished she had chosen her words more carefully. Been more delicate when warning him of things to come. Or even help him prepare for them better. 

Maeve wished he would have written to her, so she could have been there for him while this happened. She doubted she could change the outcome, but at the very least he would not have had to be alone. 

“I’m sorry, again for coming back so soon. I know we agreed to wait. I just didn’t know where to go, and I didn’t want to be in fucking Paris any longer.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes again. 

Maeve shifted her weight. She had so far distanced herself from any of these matters. Now she was regretting it since she wanted so desperately to comfort him but had no idea how. 

“And so my line has ended…” He said in finality. “I don't suppose you have any vodka?” He asked, looking to her with bloodshot eyes. She looked away quickly. 

“No vodka, but I have Ouzo from Cypress. Nicky and Josef sent it. You want it?” She hurried to collect it from the cabinet. It had never been opened. She walked over to him, working her fingers at the cork which was stuck starkly into the neck.

She stood before him, struggling to open it. 

“Here, just give it.” He said, exasperated, reaching for the bottle.

“No don’t. Let me.” She insisted, pulling at the neck, he offered resistance at first, so she gave slack. But she gave it a moment too late, since he also relinquished his hold as she did hers. The glass shattered against the cobblestone floor. Shards tinkled like windchimes as they scattered. 

He let out an exhausted huff of breath. He started to lean as if to pick up the glass from the floor, but she caught him by a coat sleeve. He froze.

“Booker. I’m sorry.” Maeve said. The frustration on his face faded a bit. But he still looked despondent. She wanted to see him smile again. Like he had that night by the river. Age would settle into the immortal’s faces, but in that firelight… He had looked like a new man. She wondered if that would be the last moment of joy she would see across his features.  
“I’m so so sorry.” She continued, stifling back the crack of her voice. She was no longer referring to the broken bottle. 

She moved to hug him and was surprised when he leaned down to kiss her. She gasped at the sudden contact, so he slipped his tongue into her mouth. He had been crying, she could feel the cooling damp of his cheeks against hers. He weaved his fingers into her hair, cradling her neck and deepening the kiss. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. 

They stumbled back to the bedroom, not once breaking contact even as they careened off the villa’s furnishings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a TA/tutor so I'm used to screaming into the void but uhhh. Let me know if you have a specific thing you would like to... see............ Let me know just straight up skfjhsg. Validate me. I will admit it. I am a human and I crave attention just like the best of us lsjghskgf. Anyway thats enough of that and porn next chapter please enjoy I'm sorry if I look pushy I'm not irl. I'm bad at the talking. *Homer Simpson fading into bushes gif*


	10. Ouzo Bottle Shards*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MMM. Well. It's a star chapter. With feelings though. I hope you vibe with it because for me its a bit of uncharted territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A billion thanks to diedremagnusdottir for beta-ing this for me. Go check out her fic Je t'attendrai!

Maeve hurried to undress. She was worried that he would start crying again if she didn’t. She let her hair tumble down from the handkerchief she had tied it in. After each piece of clothing, she would move back to him to kiss him. He seemed in no rush, taking his time unbuttoning each individual button on his coat. 

“What are we doing?” Booker asked. Maeve snorted as she reached behind her to undo the laces of her corset.   
“You mean right now?” She said, letting the corset slip down her body and to the floor. She pulled off her shirt and pressed herself against him, hoping the warmth from her body would snap him out of his trance. Maeve undid the ascot holding his collar together, dipping to kiss his neck. She tossed the silk cloth to the ground. 

“I mean in general. What are these... Meetings?” He said, putting his hands on her waist, not pushing her away, but not drawing her close either. She untucked his shirt from his trousers. 

“I think that usually we take our clothes off, and then we fuck.” Maeve whispered, pulling his jacket off of him. It fell to the ground on top of the other clothes. He pulled off his undershirt. Maeve leaned down to tug off her boots.

“Is that what we’re doing? Just fucking?” He asked and let his shirt drop slowly from his hand. 

“Why? Did you not want to?” She asked, stopping rolling down her stockings as she lay on the bed. He took off his boots and trousers before climbing onto the bed. 

He was moving things along, but she would not continue until he assured her it was what he wanted. The body could imply things that were incongruent with the mind.

“I-no, I just…” He started, when he felt the skin on skin of their naked bodies touching, the content of the rest of his sentence faded off. She stopped touching him and raised an eyebrow in question.

“Forget it. Now is not the time. Will you still have me?” He asked, looking down at her with those sullen eyes. She leaned up to pull him down on top of her in answer. Maeve wanted to make him feel good. Maybe the gratification of his body would push out some of the negative emotions swirling so close to the surface. 

He took one of her breasts into his hand delicately. She hummed as his rough and calloused fingers grazed over the satin of her skin. Her breath hitched when his mouth covered her nipple. She brushed his hair back and he glanced up at her before continuing. He moved over her neck, then her breasts, then her collarbones. He was peppering kisses and sucking marks into her skin as if he was gaining sustenance from her body. 

As much as she enjoyed his attention, she wanted to clear his mind in a more rough and tumble way than what was currently the standard. She tugged on his hair and guided him back up to her mouth. He kissed her lips again, more gentle this time than he had been in the kitchenette. She traced the curves of his hips before urging him closer with a tug. He broke the kiss to look at her. 

“Can we go slow?” He asked. Maeve looked up and met his green jewel gaze. The despair in them was almost too much to handle. It felt contagious, she worried of getting caught up in the gloom. When she didn’t respond he continued.

“I just want to forget. For as long as I can.” He finished. She nodded and let go of his hips to bring his head back down to hers. They had time. Nothing else but time really.

When he finally entered her, he had coaxed her body to almost hypersensitivity. His gentle touches, caresses, wound her up like a spring. Each brush of his lips, each touch of his fingers, felt magnified in her senses. She wondered if it was night, would sparks be jumping between his hands to where he touched her? It felt like it should. 

If he noticed her heightened sensitivity he made no indication. He simply moved himself between her legs, taking his time, like he had asked. She wanted to pull him to her roughly. She wanted him to take her like an animal in heat. The waiting was agony. 

Each slow slide of his body into hers felt like she was waiting for a million years. She wanted to be filled by him, consumed by him. His movements were perfectly controlled, nothing laborious. Just the gentle slide of one body against another. She was breathing hard, not from exertion but from arousal. 

He didn’t act as if this was his intention in taking things slow. In fact, he seemed unaware of how desperately she writhed under his touch. How hard she was working not to pull him against her and force him to pick up the pace. She would not beg. She would not allow herself. But she almost wished she would, just so the anticipatory bow of tension she felt could be snapped. 

Usually, his touch was reserved for spurring on the erotic, enticing her to higher sites of pleasure. Coaxing her to orgasm. This time, he was touching her as if she was his tether to earth. As if releasing his hold on her body would cause him to fade into dust. She could hear his every breath. 

She could feel each scrape of stubble against her cheek as he rolled his hips to hers.   
This was not how she preferred it. She liked it short and sweet. But entirely unexpected by her, his slow rutting made her body feel on fire, crying for release. 

He was making love to her like they had all the time in the world. And it felt like they did. The world outside was pushed out of perspective, out of sync. The linear progression of time felt absent now. They were suspended in the fading fall dusklight. The moment was theirs. Each sigh and groan reverberated through the both of them, imperceptible as to who’s original it was. 

Perhaps the other times they were together, they had been fucking. But now as he held her close as the sun crept down the hills, they were making love. Slow and languid. Soft and sweet. They moved together like a choreographed dance, rushing onward to crescendo. 

She felt the planes of his body shift as he flexed and rolled. He leaned his forehead against hers. His eyes were closed, his mouth beautifully agape. A strand of hair from behind his ear fell onto her cheek. Their breath was mingled. 

She shifted her hips up, and his eyes flickered open. The shadow of melancholy from earlier was farther away now. Wherever his mind was at, it did not seem to be in the hospital room in Paris. He looked from one of her eyes to the other and the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something close to it. He slipped one of his hands down her side and pulled her leg up higher around him. He let more of his weight settle on her, as if he was surrounding her by his presence. She was held in place by his body, not allowed to speed up his still infuriating tempo. But oh god, was there more friction. 

His eyes closed again and he moaned. Unabashed. The husky rumble a pitch deeper than usual. He was not reserving any embarrassment for how he was feeling. Even without her attempts to spur it on, he was finding pleasure in her body so much so that his moans tumbled freely. His face contorted in pleasure, his brow furrowed not out of pain but something else entirely. 

She reached the zenith of their coupling suddenly, and without warning. She loved to see him in the throes of passion, unbothered by the weight he had brought with him. Warmth spread through her until what had started could not be stopped. Rapture bubbled through her nerves like champagne in a glass flute. She was overwhelmed by the magnitude of it. She shuddered against him, groaning his name.

“Sebasti-” He cut her off by covering her mouth with his own. His tongue moving to sweep across her lower lip and swallow her moans. She groaned into his mouth, she couldn't stop herself. Her fingers tightened on his hips, not pulling faster, but simply grounding herself to his pace. The waves of orgasm lasted longer than they usually did. Her mind had forgotten all else but his touch. 

When the shaking in her legs had stopped, he lifted his head from where he had been kissing her neck. 

“Did you-?” The breath of air from his question tickled the hair near her ear. 

“Yes. God yes...” She sighed and kissed his shoulder. 

“Good.” He answered and continued his leisurely pace, shifting her thigh up farther around his hips. She wondered how he could last so long. She had no idea how much time had passed since they had started, but it was almost completely dark. There was just a dim purple glow illuminating the bedroom. 

She cradled his neck much as he had held her earlier. She kissed him and felt a brief stutter in his hips. 

“What do you need?” She breathed into his ear. He inhaled deeply, as if steeling his nerves.

“Come here.” He said and leaned up, pulling her back with him. She was in his lap, holding his shoulders. They were almost eye to eye. He pulled her down as he lifted his hips under her. Maeve touched his cheek and he looked at her. She felt herself tremble again from the way he was looking at her. 

He leaned forward, his nose brushed aside her hair. His breathing was heavy now. She began touching him like he had to her earlier. She traced her hands over his body, feeling the dips and curves from where his muscles came together, knitted over so many times after so many years. 

His teeth scraped her ear lobe and she squealed, a most unlady like noise. He grunted. She had tightened around him unconsciously from the sudden touch. What an idea that gave her. 

When he was pulling out, she would focus on tightening around him. He would groan out a curse in French each time she did. And, most importantly, he would speed up a little. 

He kissed the crook of her neck, trying to muffle the expletives tumbling from his mouth. She bounced in his lap, keeping his current pace. 

He had done enough work for the night she figured. She was riding him as he held her tightly. She increased the tempo. Her breasts slid against his skin, slick with sweat. She hummed in approval. His fingers tightened on her hips and she felt his teeth dig into her shoulder, deep enough to sting. 

Her voice hit a pitch that was closer to a yelp than a moan and her nails dug into his shoulders. She felt his hips jut haphazardly up to hers as he came, holding her tightly, teeth on her flesh.

When his hips stilled and his teeth relented, she flopped back onto the pillows. 

Her chest was raising and falling, she once again was struggling to catch her breath. He nodded and laid down next to her, on his side so as to face her. 

He brushed the red mark he had bitten onto her shoulder with his knuckles. It was already fading fast.

“I am sorry. I got carried away.” He apologized. 

“A lovely, albeit temporary, side effect of a great fuck.” She smiled. She missed the days when bruises such as those would last longer than a few seconds on her body. It disappointed her that she would never again wear marks from the past night's lover. 

He wrinkled his nose at her remark.

“What?” She started, hoping she had not reminded him of his son's death somehow.

“Was that all it was to you? A good fuck?” He asked.

“I think I said great fuck.” She replied. 

“You’re avoiding the question.” He said. She stared at him. He was back on track to the questions he had started before. 

“See, this is why I usually try to fall asleep right after. No hard questions.” Maeve closed her eyes and faked snoring. When she opened her eyes again, he was not smiling. 

Booker sat up off the bed and let his legs hang over the side. His back was to her.  
“If you didn’t want to answer, you could say as much.” He said. She sat up from the bed and wrapped her arms around him, kissing his cheek. 

“It’s not that it's just…” It was easier to answer when he was not staring her down, although only by a little. “I don’t know what this is. If there is an ‘is’ even. I like your company. Can that be enough?” She asked, keeping him from rising by her embrace. He looked over his shoulder at her. 

“Is that enough for you?” He said. She bit her lip. She hadn’t considered it this far. Over forty years though, she should have. 

“Well it's hard, if we get too close, we may end up hating each other. Imagine spending a theoretical eternity with someone you hate. But on the other side… What happens if we are together? What happens when one of us gets killed. You’ve seen Nicky and Joe over each other's bodies. The anxiety and fear they feel each time it takes more than a second to resurrect. Could you handle centuries of that fear? Or what happens when it comes true? I am over 200 you know.” She released her grip on him and he stood. 

He walked around the bed and started gathering his clothes. 

“You think we would hate each other?” He asked as he turned his trousers right-side-out. 

“It's a possibility.” She replied, she did not like the direction of this conversation. What could she say that would make this turn out right?

“So is death every single time we meet it.” He picked up his shirt from the ground. “You seem scared? Of what?” He asked as he pulled on his shirt. 

“What do you want? What do you want me to say?” Maeve asked. Booker shrugged and pulled on his pants. 

“I want you to tell me the truth. Is this-” He gestured between them. “-More than just a good lay? Or is that what we do, we meet up and we fuck and we leave? We do jobs with the team every other year and pretend we’re little more than strangers. Why all this secrecy? Why lie?” He asked, halting in getting ready. 

“We’re not lying. Why haven’t you told them? Why does it have to be me? The fault doesn’t just lie in my actions. Wasn’t it you who first fucked me on the train then ran?” Maeve demanded. Booker waved a hand dismissively and put on his coat. 

Maeve was getting angry, but more dangerously, she was getting embarrassed. She sat up on the bed, wrapping a sheet around her naked body.

“So I must answer, but you don’t have to?” She asked. 

“I think you’ve answered enough for my understanding.” He said, pulling on his boots. 

“And what about my understanding? What do you want out of this Booker?” She demanded. 

He knelt and yanked his ascot up off the ground, tucking it into his coat pocket. 

“I guess it doesn't matter, does it? Whatever my answer may be will scare you. You’ve made it clear how you feel about it. I guess we can leave things as they may be.” He said, and turned into the kitchen. 

When she realized he meant to leave, she leapt up from the bed, wrapping the sheet tighter around her and following behind him. 

She heard the glass from the bottle of Ouzo crunch as he walked across the kitchen. She turned the corner of the bedroom just in time to see the front door swing shut. She considered following him, but preferred not to charge across the field of broken glass barefoot and wrapped in only a sheet. 

Wherever he decided to go this late in the day was no business of hers any longer. She only wondered what would happen when they were due to meet in a year's time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Booker and Maeve both being head over heels but refusing to be the first person to admit it is *spiderman pointing meme* We love stubborn Drama.


	11. Orleans 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AY YO CHECK THAT TIME SKIP THOOO. For those of you who hate math (me) it's been 60 years since the last chapter because these two dummies are proud and don't know how to apologize. What did they do in that time? Avoided each other like the plague. Also, Maeve fucked Oscar Wilde don't @ me. 
> 
> Sorry this next chunk took so long to post I do be dying under the crush of homework and trying to figure out what the heck the deal with grad school apps is. Also I ran out of Matthias movies on Netflix and prime so I'm dehydrating in the desert. Also this chapter gets kinda wink wink which is to say its not a star chapter but its not exactly pg. 
> 
> As always, a humongous thanks to diedremagnusdottir for beta-ing this for me. Her comments on this chapter are as follows *clear throat* "time to get kinky French boy" which is [saluting crying guy meme] Go check out her fic Je t'attendrai also about Booker 👀

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to get an idea for the vibe of the moulin rouge I'm going for in this part, I'd suggest these videos which are somewhat nsfw cos uhhh... can-can dancers + strippers. Also my parents really be letting me watch these movies at age 8 or whatever and be like "yeah this bitch will turn out straight." The fools... Historical accuracy? I don't know her...
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IAzJKk6t6S0
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bn_Df5UNy3s

Orleans 1912

_ Andromache, it’s Maeve. I know we have not spoken in some time, but there is something happening here in Paris, at the Moulin Rouge. I need help. I need it soon.  _

_ -M _

Booker turned the letter over, looking for some other indication of what was going on. It was all blank except for the entry in the middle. The note had been hastily scrawled and sealed. 

He thought about how he had never seen her handwriting before. The parchment had a wine stain in the lower right corner. 

The others were preparing to move out in the other room. Andromache and him to Prague for a peace conference and Joe and Nicky to Beirut to attempt to alleviate the growing tension. 

Andromache had passed him the letter when it came in, asking if he would be willing to forgo Prague for Paris. She must have known Booker preferred working in his native language. But what Andromache did not know was what had transpired between him and Maeve...

They had not seen each other for 60 years. A lifetime. Their fight in Versailles was so short for so long a separation. They moved around each other, joining together with Andy or Josef and Nicky at different points. For different, separate missions. He had not asked about her and from what he could tell, she had not asked about him. 

“What do you think?” Andy said coming into the back room. Booker dropped the letter back onto the cabinet. “It’s not like her to ask for help.” Andy continued, retrieving a stash of passports from under a rug. Booker chuckled. That it was not. 

“I think if she says she needs help she needs help.” Booker replied. Andromache nodded.

“You good to take it? You have more connections in Paris than any of us do. Plus, I think Joe and Nicky would kill me if I didn’t let them go back to Beirut.” 

Booker looked over the letter again. If she really was in it as bad as her note made it sound, perhaps then she had no choice but to accept his help. 

“Yeah I can take it. Let me know how it goes for you in Prague. I’ve made the blank travel papers for Nicky and Joe, they’re drying in the end room.”

\----------

The Moulin Rouge was located in a more bohemian part of Paris. It was a location he would not have chosen to live. There were parts of Paris that were seen as iconic, especially now that the tower had been completed. 

There were still others that rejected the reputation of the more high class areas of the town. They revelled in their deviance from the norm. The rogue itself was located almost in the center of it all. The building itself was easily visible by the large windmill spinning atop its roof. 

Booker flicked his cigarette to the ground and looked at the entrance to the club. There were two huge bouncers standing with their arms crossed in front of them. He snuffed his cigarette with the tip of his shoe. 

There was a small side alley to the left of the cabaret that was likely a workers entrance. He walked with confidence towards it. Just before he got there, one of the guards to the club stepped in front of him. 

“Hey buddy, nice try. You gotta buy a ticket like the rest of ‘em, or else we kick you to the curb. Got it?” The bouncer said. 

“I'm going to meet someone here.” Booker said.

“Yeah right, like we’ve never heard that one before.” The other guard said from the front. The other guard held his hand out. 

“We’ve also heard, ‘one of the dancers is my sister’ ‘I’m a new bus boy’ ‘I’m the health inspector’ and ‘I think my wife might be in there’ there ain't nothing new under the sun.”

Booker opened his mouth to say he really did know one of the dancers. Then he realized he couldn't ask for her by name, as there was a chance it had changed in the past half century. He dug in his coat for his pocket book. 

\--------

The interior of the Moulin Rouge was so far detached from anything that he had ever been in. Cabarets in the more modern sense, did not exist in the Paris of his time. There were bars sure, but the reputation the Moulin Rouge had of its particular amusements was not peddled as dinnertime entertainment in his age. 

The walls were covered in all sorts of decadence. He had half expected Maeve to be running the bar, but that was not the case. 

He surveyed the room, but did not see her. Would she still look the same? It's not like she could have changed anything but her hair. Could she be a janitor for the club then? 

Her message had given so little detail… He could not imagine that she had taken on work as one of the courtesans upstairs, but then again, he did not seem to know her as well as he thought. 

Men sat around tables smoking and drinking. There were no women in the dance hall. At least not yet. The lights shining on the stage were still flickering. It was late, but he heard the Rouge ran from dusk till dawn. 

He had caught them at intermission, it seemed. Booker ordered a whisky from the bar and took a seat in one of the empty booths in the back.

The MC took the stage amidst a cacophony of whoops, jeers, and clapping. He waved the audience down until they could hear his announcements. 

“We have a very special treat for you tonight. The Moulin’s garden has been watered by all the-” The MC rubbed his fingers together to indicate money. “-Rain we’ve been having lately. And now, it is in bloom.” The cheering from the crowd began again. 

When they settled, the MC continued. “Please welcome to the stage, the Blossoms.” As he stepped to the side, the curtains swung open. 

The dancers were all clustered together in the middle of the stage. They all had on different color costumes and unique makeup. One of them stood out among the rest, the dark colors of her costume stark against the bright pinks and reds. 

Booker sucked in a quick breath before stopping himself. Standing there in the midst of the dancers, looking at the crowd through her darkened eyelashes, was a woman who had not aged a day in 60 years. 

A hi-hat rhythm set the tempo for the song. The dancers snapped their fingers or tapped their feet in time. Then the rest of the band started and the skirts went up. 

His eyebrows raised as if they were trying to meet his hairline. He had heard of the new dance, the French can-can as they called it. But seeing it was different. A flurry of petticoats, pantaloons, stockings, and garters shook in all colors as the dancers kicked their way across the stage. 

It was a very sensual dance despite the fast pacing at which they moved. It was interesting how the lines between entertainment and the erotic grew more and more blurred as the decades passed. In his time, it was still polite to look away if ever a woman's ankle was exposed in public. Now, he was privy to the entirety of the moulin rouge’s dance cast’s lingerie.

He had always agreed with the idea that a naked woman was preferable to a clothed one, but even with what these dancers had on, there was little left to the imagination. Still, what was covered, left a tantalizing mystery for all who watched. 

Booker was captivated and utterly transfixed. He had not yet seen Maeve fight, but with the speed and grace at which she traversed the dance floor, he could easily imagine the same on the battlefield. 

She was light on her feet, and perfectly balanced. She switched her weight between heeled feet as if she weighed no more than a feather. 

The dancers hopped down from the stage to the front as the patrons cheered. They lifted their skirts and hooked their fingers around their garters. Like a band of elastic, they shot them into the air. 

A purple garter landed on the lamp on Booker’s table. The men scrambled to collect the small strips of lace. The dancers dispersed through the crowd in hunt of their garters. 

Maeve approached his table, waving at the crowd as they implored her to stop, just for a moment, at their table. 

When she got to where Booker was sitting, she made no indication of recognition. She simply extended her ankle to him and nodded at the garter. He looked at her for a moment longer before responding. He was looking beyond the makeup and to the face he had left in Versailles. He took the garter off the lamp. 

There was no anger or hatred in her eyes. She did not seem bothered by the fact that he had come instead of any of the others. 

He had no idea what to say to her. He had had sixty years to consider how it would go when they inevitably met up again. Nothing came to mind. Not when she was standing there. Not when she looked like that. 

She reached out and took his hand that held her garter. She guided him to slip it up over her boot and up her thigh. His hand lingered at the hem of her stockings. She winked. 

“I’m glad you’re here, thank you for coming.” She whispered, smiling at him. She turned away, resuming the dance with the rest of the chorus. The smile had surprised him. 

The dancers were all on the floor of the dining area now, spinning between the tables. Their skirts flowed out and he realized he was in the midst of the garden. They were all colored as if they were flowers. Maeve was a dark violet amongst the pink, reds, whites, and oranges. How fitting for her. 

With a grand final effort from the band, the dancers leapt in the air and slid into the splits, their skirts flowing out as they leaned forward to grab their leg in front of them. The garden in repose. 

Booker finished his drink. He had not known her to be that flexible during their… Exploits. But of course he had never personally attempted anything that pushed the limits of what he considered reasonable. He shook his head as if to clear his mind. 

It was odd the way his mind was jumping immediately into the gutter. Memories from Versailles had been floating around his consciousness ever since he read her letter. It was different the last time they were together. 

Not only from their fight, but the way she had let him have his way with her. She was usually ravenous and hurried, controlling their every action. Like backleading in a dance. But that evening she had laid calmly as he touched her how he wanted. 

She had shown that she was capable of the delicate intimacy he had been craving for all those years. It seemed fitting that it would all fall to chaos just as it was realized. She had been hesitant to admit any kind of feelings or connection. 

But was that because it was not there, or just because she truly was scared of what it meant in the long term? He would be willing to give her whatever she wanted just to be able to have her again like he had in Versailles. 

The dancers picked themselves up from the floor and began to mingle as they made their way to the stage. They collected tips from the audience, tucking them into their corset straps or skirts. 

Some of the patrons seemed familiar with many of the dancers. Booker wondered how many of them were courtesans through the bordello. 

He watched as one of the men from the crowd grabbed Maeve’s arm and began talking to her. She gave him an illuminating smile. 

Jealousy like molten lead swirled in Booker’s stomach when she hoisted her skirt and allowed the man to slip some francs into her garter. 

As Maeve walked away from the patron’s table, the man slapped her ass. Booker slammed his glass to the table before he could crush it in his fist.

It had been years since he had last felt anger contort in defense of his interests. The sounds of the world outside faded out as he stared daggers into the man who was currently being pat on the back by his friends. 

It's not like Booker felt Maeve was his. But the acknowledgement of her sexuality from someone other than him was a strange, infuriating sight. He prayed that it was all an act on her part, that encouraging the customers to empty their wallets was part of her job description. 

She climbed the stairs back up to the stage with the other dancers. They reformed into the arrangement they had started their number at. Maeve looked out across the dance hall, scanning the audience. 

Booker felt a jolt of excitement when she met his eyes across the room. Her gaze flicked to a side door near the stage and back to his. He nodded just as the curtains swept in from the sides to separate them once more. 

The MC approached the stage. Booker left the booth and slinked through the crowd to the stage door. 

It was dark enough that no one seemed to be watching him as he entered the back rooms of the club. Girls in various stages of costume changes bustled through the halls, applying makeup, fixing their hair, and giving him nary a thought. 

He scanned the signs on the rooms to see if he could recognize any of the names on them. He wondered if he would be able to tell which one was her, if she was indeed using a fake name. Booker was almost to the end of the hall when a certain sign stopped him. 

“Madame Hellebore.” 

Her skirt  _ was _ colored dark purple. Not unlike those flowers found in the Versailles gardens… He knocked on the closed door. It opened just as his knuckles left the wood. 

Maeve looked at him. Her mouth was slightly agape. Her hair was down from the Gibson girl bun, cascading in waves across her bare shoulders. Her face lit up in recognition. Brighter than it was when the man from the front slipped the money into her garter. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You: they're stealing all these lame ass tropes, they cant keep getting away with it!  
> Me: *Ariana grand 'and what about it' gif*


	12. Boudoir *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12 already good christ, is this were a dissertation I'd be DONE. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm trying to give Booker some top vibes here even though we know that boy is a bottom. In my alternative relationships psych class we were talking about mate guarding tactics and how jealousy evolved as a defense mechanism against mate poachers so I took a little segue with that since I doubted Booker would go for a "No one else can have, you can't talk to any other men" type of mate guarding and more of a "I will prove to her that my mate value is very high." Anyway I'm a psych/anth major who loves info dumping and you have to learn before you get your porn <3
> 
> Major thanks to diedremagnusdottir for beta-ing this for me as well as staying on my ass to make sure I actually, ya know, wrote it... Go check out her fic Je t'attendrai also about Booker 👀

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half assed idea but, would you guys want a playlist that goes along with this fic? Me and diedremagnusdottir have been swapping song recs and I'm like actually we are galaxy brain about this. I'd probably post it as a different fic but with links to songs and what the songs mean and stuff idk. Just a thought! Let me know if theres any interest.

“Booker, thank god you’re here, I foun-” She started before he cut her off by picking her up and kissing her. She gripped him tightly by the shoulders, not pulling away. 

He kicked the door closed behind them. He set her down to the ground, pushing her back to the vanity and plastering kisses down her neck. She stumbled across the floor. 

She pulled him back with her, giggling. Actually giggling, as if his desperation was amusing to her. Her thighs hit the edge of the vanity and he picked her up to sit on it. 

She grinned at him through heavily shadowed eyes. Her makeup had been smudged either by the process of dancing, or by her attempts to remove it. It looked messy, but he thought it was ridiculously arousing all the same. 

“Well hello to you to-” She started until he shifted his hand up under her skirt. Her breath hitched when his fingers gracefully slipped under the hem of her stockings. His hand traced the path of one of the runners in the fabric. She tssked at him for messing with it.

The fabric of the skirt itself was light, almost airy. He had wondered if it was heavy for her to dance in. Apparently not. 

She hummed as his hands rolled the flesh of her thighs beneath his fingers. Their fight had not left her as angry as he had thought. Perhaps he should test the waters. 

He snapped the garter against her leg and she laughed again. It was a test passed close enough for him. 

He pulled her skirt up and knelt under the flurry of purple fabric. It was like hiding under curtains or in the covers. The sounds and lights of the outside world were muffled. 

His hands tugged the edge of the frilly underwear down to drop them on the floor. She pulled her legs together, trapping his head between her knees. She pulled her skirt back and threaded her fingers into his hair, trying to pull him up. 

“The door’s not locked. One of the girls could come in at any time.” She implored him, her voice heavy with desire, but still with a hint of restraint. 

“I don’t care.” He said, pulling her legs apart and diving between them. Maeve gasped as his mouth reached her. She grabbed the edge of the vanity, knocking over a powder jar with the action. 

He had caught her off guard, and so her initial moans were free to reverberate through the small dressing room. She quickly bit her fist to muffle herself, which was disappointing, but also likely safer for their subterfuge. The curtain made by her skirt fell back around his shoulders as she released her hold on his hair. 

He had gone slow with her in the mansion in Belarus. He had wanted to reward her admittance of fault. This time though, the fault had not been acknowledged by either of them. And therefore he was trying to punish her by shattering her self control. 

He knew she liked it fast and rough. But if he were to do her like normal, he would not last long enough to complete his torture. Therefore he gave her everything he could from their current position.

It seemed to be working too, her legs were already trembling like she was close. She was having trouble muffling her moans against her hand. Needless to say, she was wet and wanting against his lips.

She had let her legs drape astride him, pulling him closer with her hand on top of his head. Her hips arched towards him but twitched away as he licked and sucked at the apex of her sex. 

When she started cursing, he knew this night would be successful. 

Her voice was slightly muffled through the fabric. He had momentarily considered bringing her right to the edge and then finishing the rest actually inside her, but he wanted a little more from her than that. 

“I-I’m close Booker I’m close. Don’t stop. Please don't stop.” She begged him. If only she were this docile all the time… 

If he were truly a wicked man he would stop now and leave to the main hall like he had left her on the train. He could wait and see if she finally came slinking out from the back rooms worked into a tizzy. Maybe she would beg him to finish the job. 

He heard her head bump the vanity and wished he could see her. He could imagine her though. Her head would be thrown back. Her nails would be digging into the wood of the side of the desk. Her mouth would be slightly open. Her lips would be dark from the way she worried them with her teeth. 

It was an exercise in self control not to stand up and fuck her. Christ, was he hard. He had been since she winked at him in the bar. He considered undoing his trousers and taking himself in hand. He doubted he could maintain his focus that way. 

There were many nights in the past half century when his blood would boil on the memories of her body. He would touch himself begrudgingly, angry that after so many years his body still ached for her. He would chastise himself for wondering, afterwards, if she had ever done the same.

He fought back a smile when he heard her take in a shuddering breath. It was a little quirk of her’s that he found so enticing. Right before she came, she always held her breath for a moment before letting it all out in a big puff of air. 

He took hold of her thighs with his hands. There came the grand exhale as she shook against him, sucking in little sips of air as she rode out her pleasure. 

Then came part two of his plan. At the point where he would usually back off and let her calm down, instead, he pushed his tongue to her harder, faster. Not stopping for her to reacclimate. 

She yelped and tried to push him away with her hands, the overstimulation was too much for her already haggard nerves. When he didn’t relent she slammed her hand back against the vanity to stable herself. Her legs had not ceased their shaking, in fact, they were trembling more. 

“S-stop its too much-Ah!” She cried and bucked against his face. He held her legs apart despite her every effort to lock them around his head. Her free hand went to where his head was, pulling him closer to her even as she begged him to stop. 

She was screaming out his name, both of them, as she came for a second time. He slowed his movement against her once the peak of her orgasm passed. He carried her down from her high on his tongue until one weak arm pushed at his shoulder. 

He would be surprised if the entirety of the Moulin Rouge did not know his name. 

He ducked out from under her costume. He breathed in the cool, crisp air of her dressing room. Maeve stayed still. He wiped his face with a hand. 

She was still holding onto the side of the vanity. He watched her as she just sat there panting, not acknowledging his presence. She had her eyes closed as if she was asleep.

She looked trashed. Utterly ravished if he was being honest. Her lipstick was smeared from when she bit her hand trying not to scream. That attempt had not been successful.

Her hair was falling in strands across her face, no longer as meticulously brushed as she usually kept it. Her legs were hanging off the vanity, swinging a bit. He could see beads of sweat collecting on her neck and collarbone.

He was proud. He’d like to see the asshole from the crowd leave her like that after only a few minutes. He grinned, thinking about the fact that this sight was his and his alone. Maeve remained still. 

“What did you write to us for?” Booker asked, crouching and gently pulling the frilly underwear back up her legs. 

Maeve was leaning against the mirror. Her chest was rising and falling as she caught her breath. A glorious flush of pink painted her chest. 

“You said you needed-” He started, Maeve cut him off by waving her hand. 

“Give a girl a minute Booker, Jesus.” She cursed. He chuckled. He watched her sigh deeply as if settling into a warm bath after a cold day. 

“Are you okay?” He asked. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just need a moment to-” She licked her lips “collect my thoughts.” She sighed and reached out to hold onto his jacket. 

“That good?” He teased. She hummed in approval. He chuckled to finally hear her give in. 

“Oh shut it. Be warned. You’re going to get it in kind. Just as soon as I can be sure I can stand.” She joked. 

“You don’t have to stand, you know.” He said, scooting her to the edge of the vanity to press her against where his body still needed her. “I’m pretty sure your makeup counter is at the perfect height.” 

Her eyes opened to meet his with a wicked gleam. 

“Third time's the charm I hea-” Maeve started. The door to her dressing room crashed open as a dancer started in before stopping. The dancer’s eyes widened, nearly seeing the two of them caught in flagrante delicto. 

“I was-” Maeve started.  
“We were-” Booker began. 

The dancer shushed them and shut the door behind her. 

“Elise, they’re moving the girls, tonight. After this show.” The dancer said to Maeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: "Someone who's not me please write top Booker content."   
> The world: *cricket nosies*   
> Me: *throws phone to ground and jumps on skateboard, snapping it in half* "FINE I'LL DO IT MESELF"


	13. Moulin Rouge Basement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !!! This chapter gets gory and violent and intense so if thats no your thing I'd advise skipping ahead. !!!
> 
> Maeve's fight style Inspo is Kimiko from The Boys so if you know who that is then yeah...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a humongous thanks to diedremagnusdottir for beta-ing this for me. Her comments on this chapter are as follows *clear throat* "homie really be getting turned on by the tinniest things" Go check out her fic Je t'attendrai also about Booker 👀

“Elise?” Booker asked, looking to Maeve. 

“Beethoven.” Was all she answered in response. She slipped off the vanity and straightened her skirt. Always back to business with her. 

“Are the girls here at the Rouge?” Maeve asked the intruder, pulling a street dress down off a partition. She shrugged it on over her costume, slipping her dance skirt off underneath it. 

“They have them hidden in the storage basement where the delivery man brings the alcohol. They said he will come with a truck to take them.” The woman explained. 

Maeve straightened her shirt over her costume. She looked like just another woman off the street. Asides from her disheveled makeup. Maeve grabbed Booker’s arm and gestured for him to follow her. 

“Who is this?” The dancer asked. 

“He’s here to help.” Maeve responded. The dancer shook her head. 

“There's too many guards. You’ll be stopped before you even see the girls.” She worried. 

“We’ll be fine. Thanks Greta.” Maeve said and opened the door. “Keep out of sight, and tell the other girls not to go down to the cellar will you?” She instructed. Greta nodded. Maeve ushered Booker through the threshold and shut the door behind her. 

Maeve wound her way through the back halls of the Rouge like a snake through the grass. Even though her boots were heeled, her footfalls were silent against the wood. Booker could see the curls of her hair bouncing with each step. 

There was a tense anticipation. An urgency for her mission. A determination to her movements he had not seen in her before. She was always the medic on their missions in the past. She would care for the wounded and make sure they all would escape safely. Always with no one the wiser to their impenetrable nature. She was on the offensive now. The cobra was rearing to strike. 

She stopped before a locked door at the end of an empty hallway. She turned back to him and held a finger up to her lips. She looked back to the door. The wood creaked gently as she kneeled before the lock. He watched her fingers slip up into her hair, withdrawing a silver hair pin. She used her teeth to bend the tines into place. 

This extent of her expertise he had never seen. Watching her draw the metal across her lips and slide into the lock was almost erotic. He was again reminded that they had never finished their reunion. The click of the lock snapped him out of his daydream. She stood and turned back to him.

“They're trafficking women through here. The boss of the organization will be here tonight to oversee the exchange. If we can stop him now, we can stop all of them.” Maeve whispered. 

She carefully turned the handle to the door, revealing a staircase leading down into a dark cellar. She took a breath and took the first step down. He followed closely behind. No sooner had they reached the bottom of the stairs when arms from the darkness reached out to grab them.

“What are you doing here?” A man in a business suit coat demanded. “Who told you we were here?” 

Booker looked around. He could not see the women anywhere, but the room was too dim and quiet to be sure.

Maeve remained calm feigning innocence. “We were just looking for some privacy, this is a bordello after all.” She explained.

“Looking for privacy behind a locked door? Seems contradictory.” Another one of the men said. Maeve cursed under her breath.

“What was that, love?” One of the men asked. 

In a flurry of movement, Maeve wretched her right hand free from the grasp of her captor. She reached into her corset and withdrew a dagger faster than he had ever seen. Spinning around, she slashed her knife across the throat of the man still holding her other hand. He released his grip on her and clutched at his neck, sputtering as blood poured down over his coat. 

She flipped the knife in her hand and threw it into the chest of the man she had broken free from. A man who stumbled back when the knife pierced his flesh. 

The others moved to swarm her, shouting. She was fading out of sight as the group surrounded her. A mistaken sense of fear dropped into his chest. He heard her fist connect with the jaw of one of the men. 

He struggled against the hands that held him, throwing his head back to break the nose of his captor. The grip on his wrists weakened and he broke free. He rushed towards the group. 

Maeve slid out of the tangle between the legs of one of the guards. There was a bright captivation in her eyes. An attentiveness that blazed as she spun herself up from the ground, capturing the knees of a man between her thighs and throwing him to the ground. She pounced on top of him, breaking his neck with her arms. 

Booker grabbed an iron keg tap from the side of the room. He swung it to the nearest guard and felt the blow land heavy. He heard a yelp from the other side of the room. Glancing over, he saw the edge of a knife sticking out from between Maeve’s shoulder blades. 

Her head snapped around to stare at her attacker. She had a cruel gleam in her eyes he had never seen. She reached around to her back and slowly slid the knife out. She stood as the man who stabbed her couldn't help but take a frightened step back. She leapt at him like a wild cat, falling with him to the ground, carrying him down with her weight. She stabbed the knife from her back into his eye socket, cocking her head at the view like a curious child. 

Her fighting style was different from the others. It was more wild, less controlled. It was like watching an owl swoop down and carry away rabbits scurrying in a field in its talons. 

It seemed at any moment that the others could get a step up on her and she would be overwhelmed. He realized as he watched her tear through the guards that this was a trick. She was toying with them like a cat with a captured mouse. She was letting them think they had a chance against her so they would keep coming, instead of fleeing while they had the chance. 

He was content to stand back and watch in horror as she executed the traffickers. Perhaps that was why she did not fight with the others. She was unhinged and ruthless, something that would stand out on the battlefield, especially if it was perpetrated by a woman. 

As the last few guards fell to her hands, the man in the business suit coat turned and started up the stairs. She whipped around and grabbed the man by the ankle, yanking him harshly down the stairs. She held his arms down to his sides with her knees. She withdrew the lapel pin from his coat, tapping her finger against the needle sharp edge. 

“N-no please. I’ll give you anything you want just let me go. Money! I have money! I’ll make you rich!” He begged. Maeve nodded and examined the lapel pin.

“Too bad for you I have no need for money.” She replied and drove the lapel pin into his skull. Booker examined the room in shock, counting 8 guards that she had killed in less than a few minutes. She turned the leader’s face with her hand to get a better look at the entry wound. 

“Maeve-” He started, feeling a little squeamish despite seeing similar scenes before. Never before had they been executed by her. She was cold and detached, almost cruelly aloof at the carnage. 

His words seemed to have snapped her out of her battle trance. She swept her hair back and stood up from the leader’s twitching body. She straightened her dress.

“How many for you?” She asked, gesturing to the keg tap in his hand.

“What?” Booker asked, trying to reestablish a grip on the current moment after what he had just seen. 

He was having trouble reconciling that she was indeed the same woman who had trembled under his touch and waited so patiently for him to resurrect on the Belarus battlefield. She had almost cried as she watched the college students flee their barricades in Paris, now she stood wiping the blood of many off of her hands as if it were a mere annoyance. 

“How many did you get? No one got away?” She asked. 

“Just the one. I didn’t see anybody escape.” He replied. She nodded. She retrieved her knife from one of the fallen and slipped it back into her bodice. He wondered if it had been there the whole time. Even before, when they were in her boudoir. 

She surveyed the basement. She took a candle from the top of one of the beer barrels and used it to light lamps in the room. There were no women in the cellar. In all appearances, it was but a simple stock room filled with wine and beer barrels, old set decorations and chests for costume storage. 

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Booker asked, worrying if all the carnage was for naught. 

“If Greta says so then I believe her. She would never ask my help on something as slight as an assumption. If she thinks the girls are here then they’re here.” Maeve rapped her knuckles on the surface of one of the barrels. It thudded. 

“Now, does that sound like sixty gallons of France’s finest to you?” Maeve asked. She scoured the room and eventually found a pry bar. She hooked the lever under the lid of the barrel and separated it with a crunch. She looked into it. Staring back at her were a pair of tear soaked eyes. They had found the women. 

There were twelve girls in total, for that was truly what they were. The oldest could not have been more than 19. Maeve led them out of the cellar and back to Greta who was working undercover with the French police. 

Maeve had instructed Booker to fill the empty barrels with the remains of the guards. She felt it would send a more impactful message to the recipients upon opening rather than if the delivery was never received. 

  
  



	14. Boudoir TWO!!!*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you spell 'socks' out loud then you're also saying "It is what it is" in Spanish or so I've been told. So yeah. It is what it is asjghkdg. I feel so bad this took me so long but I'm TA in 4 classes so the sheer amount of GRADING I've been subjected too in the past few weeks... Oofies. 
> 
> One of my friends said that Matthias looks like Tim Roth which is another one of my crushes (OBVIOUSLY when he's in tales from the crypt) and so that really @-ed me... Although I made the argument Tim Roth in tales is short but has top/tall energy so theyre obvi not the same because Booker is tall but has short/bottom energy. Thoughts?

It had been a long night, the interior of the Rouge was winding down as the dawn came. The bar was empty of patrons. Busboys and waitresses cleared and cleaned the tables and floors. Booker entered the back halls of the Rouge again, no one paid him any mind. 

The door to her room was closed again. He knocked on the door. He heard her voice beckon his entry. 

Maeve was standing at the side of her mirror, drying her hair. She had changed out of her blood stained clothes and into a nightgown. 

It was amusing to him that she was preparing for bed just as the day was beginning. It was odd to him to see her dressed all in white. Usually she favored black or at the very least, dark clothes. She looked angelic. 

The night gown was thin, almost threadbare. He gulped. He had seen her naked many times before, but there was something about the near illusion of her body hidden in the fabric that was alluring. 

“I would have offered you a bath, but there’s only so much hot water here and I was a bit messier than you.” Maeve joked. 

“It's fine.” He assured her. She tossed the towel over the side of a chaise lounge and walked closer to him. The room was small, there was no bed. He looked away from her hoping his face would not betray his thoughts.

He had at first been horrified by the fight. Now he appreciated her restraint.

“Booker I’m sorry you had to see me like that.” She offered.

“Like what?” He replied, feigning ignorance. She rolled her eyes at him, catching the omission. “Why did you ask for my help if you could have handled it on your own?” He asked.

“I didn’t need help with the guards. I needed help with me. Usually, when Andromache comes, she keeps me in check. Keeps me in line. It can be addicting, you know? The blood lust.” Maeve explained. 

He nodded. She was close enough that her scent was carried over on the air to him. He needed to focus on her and not on his imagination. Booker shifted his attention back up to her face. That was almost worse. After such a high risk event, it took awhile for the adrenaline to let down. 

“It's the curse of human biology perhaps, we are physiologically aroused by the danger. This is to keep us from dying. But when we can’t die? Where does that energy go? It just keeps coming and coming until someone stops you.” Maeve explained. 

He was comforted to know that she felt the heat of the battle still in her blood. It was selfish on his part to think that he deserved anything else from her. But he wanted it nonetheless.

“I think you did a fine job of stopping yourself. I don’t see how I was needed.” He assured her. 

She hummed. 

“It's not always someone ripping me off of carcasses and throwing me into the Rhone. It can be more simple. Like a look. Or a word.” She explained as she stepped closer to him. “A touch...” She continued, her voice tapering off as she caressed the side of his face with her hand. 

Booker’s back bumped into the door of her room when she kissed him. He held her face delicately, kissing her back eagerly. 

He would be lying if he said he did not feel a spark of joy when she initiated things between them again. He had fully expected to come into her room and say goodbye. Leaving her for yet another indeterminate time. 

He flipped them around so she was against the wall. He had a mind to trap her again so she couldn't run. He reached over and locked the door as she slipped his jacket off his shoulders. She raised a teasing eyebrow at him. 

“I’m not interested in any more interruptions.” He explained. 

They stood there kissing, rediscovering each other's bodies with hurried hands. The tension was building again. He loved the feeling, wanted to reach the peak of it but continue in this plateau state for as long as he could. 

She wasn’t rushing him onwards as usual. Perhaps he had satisfied that whim of hers earlier. She was yielding into his desires, deferring ground as sort of a flag of peace. Maeve seemed content to explore his mouth with hers for the time being. 

She let him enjoy the slow pace, usher things on at his own desire. She didn’t have to say it, he understood what that meant for her. 

His words came whispered in her ear, muddled by his laborious breathing. “Come back to Orleans with me.” 

Maeve ran her hand down his chest, scraping her nails over the fabric. 

“We could take our time, never have to rush things.” He continued. 

Maeve hummed in approval as she scraped her teeth against his neck. She was ever evasive.

“What about the others?” She asked. He squeezed her breast through the fabric. She whimpered briefly before stopping herself. 

He wanted her to give in to him and admit it. Admit that they would inevitably come back together, no matter the years they spent apart. He could watch her kill with impunity and still want her just the same. 

Her inhale hitched in her throat as he slid his thigh between her legs.

“Well, you would have to be quiet if the others were around.” He joked, hiking one of her legs higher up his waist so he could rut against her. She whined and squeezed his thigh between her legs. 

The curve of his leg allowed the perfect surface for her to grind her core against. The layers of fabric between them trapped the heat and diffused it. She wanted him. God above it was seductive to feel her carelessly moving against him, using his thigh to get herself off. 

“What if I don’t want to leave?” She challenged. He felt her fingers on his belt. The impatience was back. He didn’t mind.

“Do you not?” He asked, pulling her nightgown up her legs. She pushed his pants down just enough before stepping out of her underwear. 

He held her up, using the wall as leverage to support her weight as she wrapped her legs around him. He could feel her wet and wanting. 

“Don’t you want to come back to us? Don’t you want to come-” He aligned himself with her and thrust forward. “-home?” He finished. 

“Fuck!” Maeve groaned as he bottomed out. “Oh I’ve missed this...” She sighed absently. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly ajar. 

“You have?” He chuckled. “What part?” What he really wanted, was to hear her say it. 

He wanted to hear her say that she missed him. That she needed him. That she writhed alone in the sheets with him on her mind all those years that they were apart. 

“You maybe…” Was all she offered. He brushed her bottom lip with his tongue, gently. She grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss. 

“Come back with me. Please.” He begged, rocking his hips into her. 

The semi-precarious position of her against the wall meant he was forced to grind against her, unable to pull back completely lest she slip from his arms. It seemed intimate, more intense. There was no casual separation of their bodies as he fucked her. 

“Booker, I…” She started, meeting his gaze. He wanted to see her. If she were to reject him she would have to do it while he was buried in her. He readjusted her leg around him and she bit her lip.

“I-” She looked at him. “I do want to come back. You’re not afraid of us growing to hate each other?” She asked. He felt her nails dig tighter into his shoulders as he took hold of her hips. She slipped her hand under the collar of his coat to feel his skin. She stopped to sigh as he pulled her onto him, increasing the pace. 

“Not as of yet. It may be in the future, but it doesn’t affect us right now. We can deal with it if it comes but now… Who cares?” He assured her. 

“I care. We may spend centuries revolving around each other’s orbit. I’d rather not do that in hate.” She replied. 

“You think I could hate you?” He asked, shifting his feet apart to strengthen his stance.

Her head fell back, exposing the column of her throat to him. He buried his head into the crook, scraping teeth against her flesh. He felt her tighten around him. 

“Who said it was you doing the hating?” She asked, reaching down to pull her nightgown up even higher.

“You’re free to hate me. Just know I will not reciprocate.” He assured her, tracing his fingers lightly over her exposed skin. 

“You’re right.” She sighed, pulling him closer. “Who cares? Lets go to Orleans.” The bliss in her voice sent a wave of heat down his spine. So she was coming back to Orleans with him. He bounced her against him faster, lifting her so gravity could bring her down to him. 

Her breath was coming in cute little gasps in time with his thrusts. He could feel her body shaking in tempo. She was wrapped around him, she wanted him. 

“Oh god. Fuck, Booker you feel so good.” She moaned as his thrusts got rougher. Her words seemed to enter right into his blood, rushing him over the peak. 

“Ah!” He cried out, cursing as he came inside her. It was unexpected and his mind seemed to blank in the blinding light of rapture. He rocked his hips gently now, riding out the last waves of orgasm inside her body. 

She felt his grip on her legs weaken and stepped down, letting him slip out of her. 

“You didn’t come.” He stated, catching his breath.

“Don’t worry about it.” She replied, kissing his cheek. “This was for you. Thank you. For everything.” She explained, nuzzling against his neck as he collected his consciousness.

“But I-” He started and she shook her head. 

“Booker, sex isn’t always about getting off. I liked it, I know you liked it. Let it be.” 

She ran her hands over his skin where she could. Her touch felt almost electric, his body was thrumming with overstimulation and she wasn’t helping. 

“Plus, there will be plenty of time in the future to make it up to me.” She winked. 

He kissed her. Hard. Fucking hell. He had missed her too. 

  
  



End file.
